


Can't Afford to Fall

by p1013



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Auror Harry Potter, Boggarts, Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy & Minerva McGonagall Friendship, Draco Malfoy & Rubeus Hagrid Friendship, Draco Malfoy is Obsessed with Harry Potter, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Growth, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Ex-Auror Harry Potter, Excessive Quidditch, Frottage, Getting Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter is Obsessed with Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts Castle, House Elves, Idiots in Love, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mutual Pining, Neville Longbottom & Draco Malfoy Friendship, POV Draco Malfoy, Past Draco Malfoy/Neville Longbottom, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Potions Master Draco Malfoy, Quidditch, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, did I mention slow burn?, minor vomiting in the final chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 100,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24725017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: Looking at Harry Potter, the Savior of the Wizarding World, curled in on himself on a classroom floor, Draco can't help but think of that scared sixteen-year-old version of himself. All he wanted was for someone to help, to save him from his own choices. And here he is, with Harry Potter pooled before him like blood on tile, needing the same.Draco takes a hesitant step forward. He's on the edge of something, though he doesn't know what it is yet. But there's a choice before him, one he almost doesn't want to make.Draco's been the potions master at Hogwarts for four years. At the beginning of his fifth year, everything looks like it'll be smooth sailing. That is, until the new Defense against the Dark Arts teacher arrives and throws all of Draco's well-considered plans out the window.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 476
Kudos: 1539





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a **completed work**. I am posting it sequentially because I'm a bastard, but it IS finished in its entirety, so if you're afraid of WIPs, you do not have to fear this one. New chapters are going up **every five days**.
> 
> The posting schedule is as follows:
> 
> ~~9 Jul - Chapter Two~~  
>  ~~14 Jul - Chapter Three~~  
>  ~~19 Jul - Chapter Four~~  
>  ~~24 Jul - Chapter Five~~  
>  ~~29 Jul - Chapter Six~~  
>  ~~3 Aug - Chapter Seven~~  
>  ~~8 Aug - Chapter Eight~~  
>  ~~13 Aug - Chapter Nine~~  
>  ~~18 Aug - Chapter Ten~~  
>  ~~23 Aug - Chapter Eleven~~  
>  ~~28 Aug - Chapter Twelve~~  
>  ~~2 Sep - Chapter Thirteen~~  
>  ~~7 Sep - Chapter Fourteen~~  
>  ~~12 Sep - Chapter Fifteen~~  
>  17 Sep - Chapter Sixteen  
> 22 Sep - Chapter Seventeen

Harry's leg aches. It sends shivers of pain lancing up and down his back as he stalks up and down the hallways of Grimmauld, the walls closing in on him as he sinks deeper into the house. They settle in the base of his spine like fire, like pins and needles, like a numbness that still hurts. He leans more and more into his right leg with every step, dragging the left behind him like the useless thing it is.

He relives the moment over and over again. Remembers the bright flash of light as the hex came darting from the darkness towards him, the crackle of it dancing up his leg with lashing sparks of pain. The way his body had stopped responding to him and crumbled away like uncertain ground, sending him crashing to the floor in an ungraceful, but still deadly, heap. He doesn't remember casting the Jelly-Legs curse back at his attacker or the flight of stairs behind the wizard—though it's all he can think about now.

The awful sound of a body sliding down wooden treads—the hollow thump of it so much like his stumbling steps—and picking up speed, a man's voice raised in terror, only to break off into silence after one single crack, haunts Harry.

The Mediwizards couldn't explain the limp or the lingering pain. They healed it to the best of their ability, and their diagnostics and tests all said the same thing: he was fine. But as he lay in his hospital bed, lights out and eyes open, it ached and kept him awake, and in the hallway outside, he heard footsteps like someone falling.

_Indefinite leave_ , they said. _Take some time for yourself. Get your mind right. Nothing to worry about, of course. Back to work in no time._

Weeks since then, and nothing. No owls, no Floo calls. Just idle minutes for him to remember everything that came before and for his leg to whisper to him with a voice like agony.

The letter, its parchment a pale beige against the dark and dingy front mat, is an excuse. An escape. He picks it up, reads it, and then packs his things—not many, just enough, just what he needs. He leaves Grimmauld behind him like the mausoleum it's becoming, its only slowly-dying occupant escaping before he can't stand to breathe anymore.

Forgotten on a table, green ink winking in the half-light of an untended fireplace, the letter sits.

_Harry,_

_If you would like it, the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor has come available for the next school year. Please let me know if you'll consider taking it. I would dearly love to see you again._

_Minerva_


	2. Chapter 2

In a surprising turn of events, it's not raining when Draco arrives at Hogwarts the day before term starts. Though heavy clouds threaten a downpour later, the weather is kind enough to hold off as he walks from the Apparition Point towards the stone mass of the castle, his trunk floating lazily behind him. Last year it was unseasonably warm when he arrived, sweat clinging to the small of his back and making the shirt beneath his robe bunch and stick in an uncomfortable knot. Today, though, the weather is all cool, wet breezes, the smell of damp earth and the tail end of summer growth rolling over him in gentle waves as if welcoming him back with soft, curling arms of green.

It feels like coming home.

Hogwarts never felt that way when he was a student. He'd grown up at Malfoy Manor, with its restrictions and propriety and etiquette. Home had meant tightly buttoned dress robes and Mother and Father's friends that he mustn't upset or disappoint. Home had been echoing hallways, long dead and very judgemental relatives staring down their Malfoy noses at him as he hurried past, house-elves cowering whenever he spoke, friends who were more conveniences than confidants.

Those first years at Hogwarts, with its warmth and openness, had confused him and left him defensive and angry. And just when he thought he'd come to terms with it, come to accept it and have it accept him in turn, his sixth year had started, and that sense of belonging, of place, had all dissipated like smoke after a fire. A heavy burden of anxiety, shame, and fear defined that year, and it twisted any warmth he'd had for the school into a wrought-iron tangle he was unwilling and unable to undo.

He eventually received the requisite NEWTs to pursue a Potions mastery, then fled the place and its broken masonry and memories as fast as possible. He left enough of his blood on its stones on that dark May morning, thank you kindly, and he planned to never return and give the castle a chance to take more from him.

He moved to the Continent, found a potions apprenticeship in the dark forests of France, and hid away for five years. His life had condensed to the simmer of a cauldron, the careful preparation of ingredients, the quiet silence and sense of suspension that came with brewing. He forgot, for a long, wonderful time, that he'd been brought low by good and evil both. He forgot about Fiendfyre, about Elder Wands, about his mother's terrified eyes and trembling hands when she found him in the Great Hall after. France was quietude. It was peace. It was being able to, finally, breathe.

Of course, reality intruded, the bastard. His return to England taught Draco one of the hardest lessons of his life: while he may have gained some level of forgiveness from the magical community at large, they hadn't forgotten one iota of what his father—and by extension, Draco—had done during the war. His name, once something to be proud of, was worthless, even half a decade after the final battle. Maybe less than worthless, he thought, because at least something worthless could be cast away. Instead, his name became an immovable weight around his neck, dragging him down with every utterance. Instead of opening doors, it closed them, shuttered windows, locked him out as firmly as a key turning a bolt.

Draco Malfoy was less than nothing, his Potions mastery a crumpled piece of paper in his clenched fist, stuck on the doorstep of respectability and likely never to take a step further than that. He briefly considered returning to France to disappear into the darkness of the woods and turn his back on the world, but in the same way that he couldn't shrug off his name, he couldn't admit defeat. He worked too hard, fought too hard, for what he had. Surrender was as much of an option as changing his name to Harry Potter and hoping no one noticed.

He found some work producing healing potions for St. Mungo's. Even with his name doing its level best to bollocks it up for him, the administration hadn't asked too many questions after he offered the potions for half the cost of his competitors—who needs a bottom line, after all, when you still have a family fortune to fall back on? Between the upkeep of the Manor and a few remaining business interests that hadn't been taken as reparations after the war, the work kept him busy, though dissatisfied.

The owl from McGonagall shocked him when it arrived. He received plenty of post, of course: a few letters meant for his mother that were accidentally sent to their townhome in London instead of the Manor; the daily delivery of the Prophet; advertisements for potion ingredients and trade magazines about the latest techniques. And Howlers, too, from any number of sanctimonious prats wanting to get in a last shot without actually putting any of their skin into the game. But the cream envelope, its bright green lettering familiar and raised beneath his disbelieving fingers, had been an opportunity he never would've imagined landing on his doorstep.

 _Mr Malfoy_ , it read, the letters sharp and somehow comforting in their cut, _Hogwarts is looking for its next Potions Master. I seem to remember you being adept at the subject while you were at Hogwarts, and if you have the requisite qualifications and the interest there may be an opportunity for you here. Please respond by owl at your earliest convenience._

_Headmistress Minerva McGonagall_

His hands shook so badly as he wrote his first response that he had to redo it. His name wasn't what it once was, but his pride wasn't diminished in the slightest, and there was no way he was going to accept this scrap of hope, this shred of kindness from someone who owed him none, without every ounce of grace and dignity he had left. His final response was written with perfect penmanship, the words chosen in such a way as to express gratitude for the offer and interest in the position while revealing none of the restless desperation that writhed underneath his skin.

He sweated his way through the interview, though he didn't let any of his shimmering anxiety and fear show. His first meeting with Minerva—she had insisted on first names—had created a flare of hope so bright in his chest, it nearly burned through him. He felt gutted after—empty and charred, but somehow clean—as they shook hands and arranged a time for a second meeting. After that, there had been a blur of practicums and discussions of pedagogy, and then Draco Malfoy somehow found himself back at Hogwarts, only this time as a professor instead of a student.

His first year back was a blur. He fought literal battles at Hogwarts, but in some ways, they paled in comparison to his first term as Potions Master. Every lesson, every moment, was hard-fought and won. He needed to prove himself, not only to the faculty but to the students. While most were too young to have parents that had fought in the Battle of Hogwarts, they were old enough to have vague memories of the last days of the war and the resulting wreckage. Their eyes were wary, even among the first years. He was convinced that the seventh years—close enough to his age for their first lesson to leave him feeling like a fraud—were waiting for him to poison them or make something explode.

Instead, he taught them each and every trick he knew. He was patient, even when he didn't want to be, and firm. He showed no favouritism, though it killed him to do so with some of the more adept students. He spent so much of his time with gritted teeth, he started having tension headaches. He didn't say a word to Pomfrey, though, just brewed calming draughts and pain-relieving tonics late into the night and took them with frightening frequency.

By the time the end of the year rolled around, he had earned a tentative respect from the students and a begrudging one from the staff. Things improved his second year, and even more his third and fourth. Now, about to start his fifth year as a professor, he's almost looking forward to seeing his students.

Almost.

A few intrepid beams of sunlight fight their way through the clouds, dancing over the glittering Great Lake. They seem out of place. Scotland is doing its best to be as dreary as possible, but the light gleams on the water, and as the giant squid rolls along the surface, seeking those tiny spots of warmth, Draco lets a grin escape as if it were an errant child, running past its parent's grasp.

The boats for the first years are pulled up to the shore, and he makes out the massive form of Hagrid moving through them, readying them for the next day. He waves to Draco after stretching, and, feeling a little foolish, Draco waves back. Even from this distance, he can make out the flash of teeth in Hagrid's salt-and-pepper beard as he smiles.

"Malfoy!" he shouts, his voice booming across the grounds. The squid rolls on the surface once more then disappears with an irritated splash. "Welcome back!"

Stuck now, Draco veers towards the man, his trunk bobbing behind him happily. He doesn't respond until his feet meet the tumbled rocks of the beach, unwilling to yell across such a great distance and with such a lack of decorum. "Hello, Hagrid. How was your summer?"

"Brilliant," he says, his voice still booming even though Draco is only a few feet from him. "Brilliant! You've got to see what I've planned for this year's advanced classes."

Considering the disaster last year's had been—Draco is still trying to figure out where in the world Hagrid procured the Hydra eggs, much less a dozen of the things—he can't help but grimace. "I'm sure it will be very… educational."

Hagrid laughs, then smacks him on the back. "Educational, he says." With another bone-rattling slap, he gestures towards the boats. "You here to lend a hand?"

"That wasn't the intention, no," Draco drawls, eyeing the slime-coated bottoms and the tarnished gilt edges. Hagrid deflates, and though Draco knows his clothes are going to end up with stains he's never going to get out, he slips his robe from his shoulders. "But as I've nothing better to do…"

Dejection flees from the lines of Hagrid's body, and he beams down at Draco, eyes twinkling with joy and just a bit of mischief. "Knew I'd get you to help," he boasts. "Let me grab you some polish and a rag. You start on this end, and we'll meet in the middle."

Draco smiles in a way that feels unconvincing. "Fantastic."

As he walks towards a wooden box filled with supplies, Hagrid shouts over his shoulder, "and watch out for the kelpies! They're a bit feisty this morning; think it's the rain."

"Since when have there been kelpies in the Lake?" Draco asks, his voice embarrassingly high pitched. When he gets no response, he tries again. "Hagrid! When did we get kelpies?"

"I thought you didn't want to hear about the advanced class," Hagrid finally shouts back, arms full of rags and unlabeled jars.

Draco drags a hand over his face. Merlin preserve him.

* * *

Draco stumbles into his quarters two hours later, his body aching and clothes soaked. The rain had held off, but the kelpies hadn't. They'd taken a frightful amount of joy in drenching both Draco and Hagrid with dingy lake water until they realized that Hagrid couldn't be bothered and they'd shifted their focus entirely to Draco and his clear irritation. Hagrid had sent him away when the damage from the kelpies outpaced the work Draco was trying to do. Hagrid had also waited until Draco was almost halfway to the castle before breaking into raucous, snorting laughter.

The utter git. Draco doesn't know why he likes him so much.

A moment after Draco sits heavily in an armchair, his trunk bumps its way in behind him, its brass fastenings looking dull and tired. It smacks against the base of his bed, then lands heavily on the ground, its lid clicking open as if on a sigh.

Draco gives it a commiserating look, then tries to toe off his dragonhide boots. When they refuse to budge, stuck to his feet like someone's charmed them there, he heaves out a breath and sits up, fumbling for the laces. The knots are swollen, and he worries for a moment that he'll have to cut his way out of the boots—they're custom-fit and cost him an amount of money it would be impolite to discuss in company—when they finally loosen and he can take them off. They land by the door with a heavy squelch, and he hopes he'll be able to get them dry without shrinking them.

As he starts peeling his ruined clothes off, the fireplace bursts into cheerful life. He moves closer to it, thankful for the heat seeping into his skin and filling the room. His quarters aren't large by Hogwarts standards, but that means the chill in the room dissipates quickly. The massive fireplace takes up most of one wall, with his bed and nightstand occupying a good portion of another. His desk—wide, with an ornate roll-top and a series of pigeonholes that seem to multiply and decrease at their own whim—is nestled next to a set of ancient bookshelves, their shelves slightly drooping in the middle from years of use. The wastepaper basket tucked next to it is dark metal and made up of a woven pattern of snakes. Draco had snatched it from the Slytherin common room on his first day as a professor, and he plans on absconding with the thing if he ever leaves.

There's no natural light in the room, but he'd spelled a series of potion flasks in his first year teaching to cast soft, golden light throughout the space, making the slightly damp stone walls look warm and inviting. There's just enough space left for a side table and the large and well-padded armchair he'd found his second year—he tries to pretend it's not faded red and gold—where he likes to spend his evenings reading, sometimes with tea, sometimes with something stronger. 

A door on the other side of his desk leads to a short hallway that connects his quarters to a small en-suite bathroom. The door creaks when he opens it, and he idly makes a note to oil the hinges before the omnipresent damp of the dungeon turns them to rust. There's a small cupboard inside, and he pulls out a thick towel before turning towards the bath.

The water comes steaming out of the tap, and he lets his fingers linger in the warmth before stepping away to find a vial of his personal cleansing potion in the above sink cabinet. It foams slightly when he adds it to the running water, then dissipates into a shine that can barely be seen on the surface.

He strips off his briefs, then climbs into the bath with a hiss. Turning the cold tap on just a bit more, he slowly sinks into the water, eyes closed in pleasure. The scents of sandalwood and bergamot roll over him as the cleansing potion does its work, gently scouring the grime and sweat from his skin. He turns the tap off with his foot before sinking deeper, enveloped by warmth and the satisfaction of aching muscles.

Some undefinable period of time later, his eyes spring open as he inhales a noseful of water. Coughing and sneezing, he sits up, sloshing bathwater over the edge of the tub and onto the floor as he tries to clear it. It had gone cold while he dozed, and he shivers his way out of the bath. He wraps himself up in a plush towel, burying his face into the corner as he wipes water from his skin. With another shiver, he drains the bath and hurries to his rooms.

The fire is still crackling, the room suffused with warmth. He drops the towel, leaving it for one of the castle's house-elves to deal with later, and climbs into his bed. The sheets are smooth and clean against his skin, and he sinks under the duvet with a deep sigh. The curtains close around him, blocking out the light from the fire and his spelled bottles. He knows he should get his classroom ready, should prep materials for his first classes, but instead Draco turns onto his side, knees tucked up towards his chest and falls asleep, content in the knowledge that he'll have plenty of time tomorrow to bother with the rest.

* * *

He spends most of the morning getting his classroom ready, reviewing his inventory lists and comparing them with the shelves and cabinets full of supplies. He's low on a few common ingredients: alcohol, beetle eyes, wormwood, and a handful of plants he'll be able to beg from Longbottom's stores. The long, black work tables are clean and relatively unscathed from the prior year. He has to cast some minor _Reparo_ charms, but nothing significantly draining. His classroom library is in a poor state, though, and he'll need to talk to Madam Pince about that. He likes to keep extra resources at hand since there are gaps in his students' knowledge that he isn't always able to account for through lectures.

As much as he hates to admit it, he's been hindered a bit by his early years at Hogwarts. He's following Slughorn's lesson plans because the higher level potions and skills are dependent on those taught in the prior years. While that means he hasn't had to do much lesson planning for his upper level classes, it also means he hasn't had much chance to experiment with some of the more cutting-edge techniques. This is his first year with fifth year students who have only studied under him, though, and that means he has his own lesson plans for OWLs. As part of that, he'd sent a list of rather obscure ingredients to the Diagon Alley Apothecary a few weeks before term, and he catalogues and stores them carefully in a locked cupboard behind his workbench. There's nothing too dangerous, at least not by itself. But there are a handful of materials—saltpeter, antimony, mercury—he doesn't want his students getting their hands on without proper supervision. He trusts them as much as he can trust teenagers, but he also knows that they're easily distracted and tend towards chaos and disorder. Entropy is, after all, the natural state of the universe, and his classes seem intent on proving the point every year.

He locks the cabinet, then finishes setting up for the first day. Cauldrons are checked and scrubbed one final time, their stands examined for any signs of disrepair. His wand gets a thorough workout, casting _Reparo_ left and right as he moves through cabinet after cabinet. After finishing with the last cauldron, he fills out an order form for the Apothecary in Hogsmeade for a half-dozen replacements. His _Reparo_ is steady and strong, but it's better to have undamaged cauldrons in reserve with the way his students treat them. 

The swollen clouds have sunk low and heavy in the sky, spitting down a thin mist too light to be called rain but still pervasive enough to sink into the strands of his hair and turn it a tarnished gold, and Draco has to blink as he leaves the castle. The greenhouses aren't far—some intrepid architect from the days of yore had the foresight to put an exit from the potions room nearby—and by the time Draco walks up to Greenhouse Five, where Longbottom's office is, his eyes have adjusted and his robes have grown damp to the touch.

The oppressive heat of the greenhouse does little to help the humid cling of his clothes, but it does afford him a lovely view. The building is filled with the smell of fresh earth and green growth. It twines around him like vines, wrapping him up in the heat of late summer and the taste of spring on the back of his tongue. There's a long bench with empty terra-cotta pots sitting in tidy piles, slumped over bags of potting soil beneath. On the other side of the aisle are banks of plants laid out in rows, most just barely past seed. Their tiny leaves are hard to distinguish from each other, small shoots of life that are only slightly different in color or shape. Past them are the more mature plants, leaves and blooms spilling over their planters, vines trailing over the tables to fall towards the mulch-covered floor. Some of the dog violets turn their faces towards him as he walks past, blinking their eyes at him, tongues lolling from their mouths as they pant.

"Malfoy."

Draco glances up from the flowers, which start barking in small, high-pitched yips. Longbottom closes his office door behind him. He's wearing a pair of Muggle jeans and a flannel shirt in garish red and gold. There's a dirt-stained apron wrapped around his waist, a pair of heavy gardening gloves tucked into a pocket. He doesn't cross his arms, but the line of his body says he wants to.

"Longbottom." Draco lets his posture straighten, falls into old habits as if they'll ease this interaction. "I was hoping I could get some supplies from you for my classes."

"Potions supplies are in Greenhouse Three." He tilts his head towards a door hidden by thick, dark green leaves. "Follow me."

Draco trails after Longbottom, the dog violets still yapping, and steps into the cold air with a shiver. "Too bad the weather couldn't hold off a bit longer," he says.

"It's not raining yet," Longbottom replies before heading around the end of Greenhouse Four and opening the door to Greenhouse Three. "Do you have a list of what you need?"

Draco fishes the slightly limp parchment from his pocket and passes it to Longbottom. "I've got an order for the Hogsmeade Apothecary I need to send if there's anything you don't have on hand."

Longbottom scans the list quickly, brow furrowed. "No, we should be fine for most of this. The only thing I don't have is Sneezewort."

"Do you know when you'll be getting more? I won't be teaching Befuddlement Draughts for a while yet."

Longbottom hands Draco his list back. "We've missed their blooming season, unfortunately. I'll have to either find another greenhouse with flowering plants or grow them from seed and force the blooms myself."

"So a few weeks."

"At the earliest."

Draco nods. "I'll add it to the order, then. Thank you."

"I'll get these supplies together for you and have an elf bring them down to your classroom later today, if that's all right with you."

"That's fine. Thank you."

They stand in Greenhouse Three for a long moment, neither of them moving or speaking. Draco wants to clear his throat but fights the urge.

"How was your summer?" he finally asks, forced by common courtesy and half-faded affection.

Longbottom sighs. "You don't have to do this, you know." He pulls his gloves from his apron. "Small talk."

"I'd rather it not be awkward."

Longbottom smiles, and it reminds Draco of when they were together, before they both realized that it wasn't what either of them needed long term. "I think it's going to be a bit awkward for awhile. It doesn't help that it still feels weird calling you 'Draco'."

Draco huffs out a breath. "Rather rude of you, all things considered."

"You're not much better."

Now Draco's smiling and remembering why he wanted things to work, once. "Point made. I'll try not to make it worse."

"Not that it hasn't been nice to see you — and I do mean that — but I've got to get the greenhouses ready for tomorrow." Longbottom takes his gloves from his apron and hits them against his thigh, knocking dirt from the leather. "There's still a lot of repotting I need to get done before the students get here and make a mess of everything. I'll send an elf with your things later tonight."

"Thank you, again." Draco nods then steps towards the door behind Longbottom's back, their arms brushing together with a frisson of uncomfortable, cloying heat.

The cool mist against his face is a relief. As Draco walks back towards the castle—not to the potions room, though, but towards the Owlery—he berates himself quietly for ever getting involved with Longbottom in the first place. It hadn't been intentional, though the thought is an ineffective balm. Too much wine over Christmas holidays, both of them in a place where they needed the comfort of a warm body, and they'd tumbled into bed together.

Longbottom's hands were rough and calloused, his nail beds stained with dirt, and he hadn't said anything about the Mark on Draco's arm when he pinned Draco to the mattress with the lean weight of his body. Draco doesn't remember all the specifics of that night, but the weeks after are clear and vivid in a way he hadn't expected such things to become. They had fun together, were physically compatible in a pleasantly surprising way. For a while, it looked like…

But of course not. Longbottom couldn't stand being in the dungeons, much less Snape's old rooms, for long, and Draco hated the way his clothes smelled like loam and were always stained when he came back from the greenhouses. And then there was their shared past and the way it haunted them in the night. They never fought, not really, but there were moments where they might have. They both _wanted_ to, but neither of them felt comfortable enough to do it. After that, even the attraction started to fade, like a _Lumos_ going slowly out. If it hadn't been for petty words said in anger and in youth and the small violences that Longbottom couldn't forget unless he was buried in Draco's body, if they'd managed to find a way to be a collective noun instead of two singular ones, it might've worked. 

But, of course, it didn't.

He'd walked away with bruises, more literal than figurative, but they both agreed that it had been the right choice for them. A little lonely, perhaps, and dispiriting, but still the right choice. It had only cemented the idea in Draco's mind that happily-ever-after was likely not in the cards for him.

The walk to the Owlery is leisurely, if wet. Rebuilt after the war, the stone here is a lighter shade than the rest of the castle, a subtle reminder that even a place as seemingly constant and ancient as Hogwarts is just as susceptible to time and change. The owls hoot a quiet welcome when he enters the semi-darkness of their roost. It smells of wet hay and the thick stink of owl guano. It's not as overpowering as it normally is, which means Filch has been through to clean recently. Pellets crunch under his feet as he approaches a sleepy barn owl, its wide, flat face turning to him as he draws closer.

"That's a dear," he says quietly. His fingers are quick and nimble as he ties his form to the bird's leg. It nibbles on the cuff of his sleeve as he does it, chittering until he fishes a treat from his pocket. "Greedy thing."

It closes its big eyes when Draco scratches at its neck, leaning into the caress. Offering his arm, he carries its surprisingly light body to one of the open windows of the tower.

"Off to Hogsmeade," he says. "The Apothecary."

The owl hoots in understanding then launches off of his arm in an almost silent rustle of wings.

Since he's entered the Owlery, the light mist has turned into a thick downpour, and Draco leans out after the bird, breathing in the scent of wet earth and ozone as he watches it disappear into the haze. The rolling hills that fall away from Hogwarts are shrouded in fog. Anxious and excited for the term to begin, he pretends he can see the owl's wings cutting through a puff of steam trailing behind the Hogwarts Express.

He doesn't have to wait much longer for the actual train to arrive. There's just enough time for him to change out of his still-damp work robes into a proper set, and then the castle's hallways ring with the sound of children's voices and laughter.

The joy he feels watching his students enter the Great Hall never changes. It's the same as when he first came to Hogwarts. Breathless anticipation, haunted by a shadow of fear that's quickly overwhelmed by the bright, smiling happiness the scene brings with it. Even as an adult, he's flooded with it. He doesn't remember ever being as young as his students—he'd been a grown man when he arrived at Hogwarts, after all, full of the confidence you can only feel at eleven—but it still brings a small smile to his face.

 _Time moves ever forward_ , he thinks. _Nothing to be done for it._

The Great Hall is dressed out for the Start-of-Term Feast. House banners flap merrily, waving hello to the returning students. Candles float through the air, brightening the overcast room. Now that night's fallen, the heavy rain and thick clouds block out the moonlight that normally glints off the goblets and plates covering the tables at dinner. Still, there's a sense of intimacy and comfort tangled with the firelight dancing across the Great Hall and the sound of laughter ringing through the rafters.

Draco settles himself at the Head Table, nodding to Hagrid at the far end. The man raises his goblet and grins, sloshing wine over the edge.

"Good to see you dry, Malfoy!" he hollers.

Draco returns his smile, though his teeth are gritted. "Hope those kelpies don't drown anyone, you massive twat."

"What was that?"

"Good to see you, too," Draco says brightly, raising his own cup in kind.

Hagrid takes a deep drink, then settles back into his chair, looking out over the students taking a seat at their tables. Draco's forced smile softens, becomes more indulgent as he watches the students gather together, pushing and shoving, jostling for seats at the table though there's plenty of room. He notes the handful of obvious couples since he knows he'll be chasing them out of the dungeons all year. Getting a head start on identifying the miscreants now will make his life much easier in the future.

"Draco."

He jumps, nearly spilling his wine, and turns towards the Headmistress, who settles in the chair next to his.

"Minerva," he says, unable to stop the pleased note from escaping. "I hadn't seen you arrive."

"That's because you were too busy glaring at the students, I suspect."

"I'd never." He grins when she rolls her eyes. "How was your summer?"

"Uneventful," she says. "The governors stayed for an extended visit in July, but otherwise, things were quite peaceful."

He raises his eyebrows. "The governors, you say."

"Yes." She turns, reaching for her own cup. "They wanted to see the progress we've made on renovations. The West Wing turned out quite well, I must say."

"Does that mean I'll be able to move out of the dungeons this term?"

She gives him a warm smile. "As if you'd ever leave."

"Remind me to talk to you in December," he says. "I'll be more up for it then."

The far doors open with a groan. Shrouded in darkness and dripping with wet, a man whose figure is somehow familiar shoves his way into the Great Hall, followed by a trail of tiny first years, equally drenched.

"Is that…?" Draco asks, his voice trailing away.

The man lifts his dark head, his black, unruly hair clinging to his fingers as he brushes it aside. His scar is a jagged, pink mark on his skin, and his green eyes lock on Draco. He feels a rush of something hard and frigid ripple through him, and goosebumps spring up on his skin, hidden by his robes.

"Potter?"

"Yes," Minerva says as she stands. "He's the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."

Draco gapes, trying to find words and only coming up with a numb silence.

"Good evening!" Minerva shouts, opening her arms and gesturing to the students gathered in the Hall. "Hogwarts welcomes you."

Draco's heard this speech before, though it varies from year to year. Minerva's familiar brogue rolls over him, turning into a low hum that blends with the ringing in his ears.

Potter lurks his way around the room, hugging the walls and the shadowed corners as Minerva speaks, seeming to favor his right leg. There's a frenetic energy about him. It's as if he wants to stand still but can't. His eyes dart across the room, watching the students with an intensity that makes the hairs on Draco's arms stand up. Eventually, the man finds a seat next to Hagrid, who welcomes him with a soft smile and a wide hand clasped over Potter's shoulder. Draco thinks he flinches, but he also knows how strong Hagrid's grip can be. It could be surprise or simple pain that makes Potter draw back.

Some part of Draco thinks that's not the case, though.

Eventually, Minerva addresses the lightning bolt-shaped elephant in the room.

"As many of you have already noticed," she says, gesturing towards the end of the Head Table, "we are welcoming a new member to our staff this year. Professor Potter will be taking over the teaching of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Please treat him with the same respect and courtesy you would afford anyone else on staff. Professor, if you'd like to say something?"

Potter seems to freeze in his seat, his whole body stiff and suddenly on guard. He looks at Minerva, then pushes his chair back with a bit more force than necessary. It screeches across the stone, echoing in the sudden silence. Scanning the tables before him, lips curled down into an almost imperceptible frown, he opens his mouth, then closes it again.

"Thank you for the warm welcome. I look forward to teaching you all this year." He pushes his glasses up his nose, coughs. "Thank you. Again."

After an awkward moment, Potter sits, his face starting to flush. The room fills with murmuring voices. Minerva claps, drawing everyone's attention again and quieting the swell.

"Now, as you all have been so patient with me, allow me to welcome our first year students and begin the Sorting Ceremony."

It's a struggle for Draco to stay focused on the Sorting. The Hat sings another one of its idiotic songs—it had been charming when he was a student; as a teacher, he hates every contrived stanza the damned thing comes up with—and one by one the children move to sit at their newly-assigned House tables.

Once they're all seated, he forces himself to focus on his food. Fork to plate to mouth. Chew. Swallow. But even with his every thought centered on finishing his meal, he can't keep himself from looking.

Potter has, of course, been in the news. The _Prophet_ writes about him almost weekly, not that Draco reads the articles. But it's hard to miss the damn things when the Prophet plasters massive photos of the man across the front page, those eyes of his still penetrating and bright, even in greyscale.

Draco had noted idly, from time to time, that age suited Potter. His boyish looks, already attractive in a conventional sense, had hardened into an almost lethal appeal. It was softened by newsprint, of course, but to see it in person…

Potter's hair still curls, even wet, and it's longer than it had been when they'd attended Hogwarts together. Now it brushes almost to his shoulders, thick and dark. It does little to hide the strong line of his jaw or the subtle curve of his neck. Those green eyes flash from beneath the shaggy drape of his fringe, candlelight glinting off his glasses. His shoulders are broad, his arms corded with thick muscles. Wrapped around the handle of his silverware, Potter's fingers are nearly obscene. Delicate but strong. Purposeful in their grip. These are fingers that know how to touch and how to hold, how to draw emotions out of others, whether those emotions be pleasure or pain. Draco shivers as he watches a flash of white teeth, Potter's too-wide mouth and too-firm lips wrapping around the tines of his fork as he eats.

Draco hates to admit it, but at some point in time over the last almost-decade, Harry Potter has become flat-out gorgeous.

"You're staring, Draco," Minerva says, knocking him out of his stupor like a Bludger to the head.

"I beg pardon?" he asks, hoping to brazen it out.

Minerva's eyebrow raises, and he knows he's been caught. "I know the two of you had a... rivalry of sorts during your school years, but please, do your best to be civil."

"I'd never consider anything less."

"Of course not." She takes a contemplative sip of her wine. "So, I shouldn't have to warn you to leave the young man alone?"

"No."

"Because he's here to recuperate, you understand."

Draco frowns. "I thought he was teaching."

"He is," she says firmly, "but he is also on sabbatical from his duties as an Auror, and I'll not have you setting his recovery back by meddling."

"Minerva, please," he scoffs. "I don't meddle."

She doesn't respond, but her expression shifts from gentle reproach to fond irritation.

He takes a bite of food, feels her eyes still locked on him. "All right, fine. Maybe I meddle a bit, but only where it's deserved."

"Then let me tell you, dear, that Harry does not deserve it in the least."

Draco glances back at Potter, and he finds he has to reluctantly agree. As he takes the time to really look at the man, he can see the hints of fatigue that cling to him, hidden beneath the _very_ nice packaging. There are dark circles staining his eyes. His shoulders are hunched, his back bowed. He appears like a man carrying an invisible weight, one he can't shift.

Draco feels a twinge of sympathy, followed quickly by hot annoyance. "I promise to leave the man alone, Minerva."

 _As long as he does the same to me_ , he thinks, uncertain if Potter will be as amenable to leaving their past behind them as Draco is.

As he finishes the last of his dinner—he refrains from dessert, thinking of Potter's trim waist and his own less-than-washboard stomach—the prefects start gathering students together, directing them towards their common rooms. The professors stand as well, some grabbing bottles from the table to bring back to their quarters for later, and Draco joins them. His chair clatters loudly against the stone floor, and a few heads turn his direction. When he catches Potter's wide green eyes on him, he sighs internally.

He'd best get this out of the way.

Cautiously, like someone would approach a hippogriff for the first time, Draco makes his way towards Potter. The other man stands—back straight, hands clenched—and doesn't move as Draco draws closer. He finally stops a polite distance from Potter, then holds his hand out.

"Professor Potter," he says, hoping his palm isn't sweating. "Welcome to the faculty. I expect the students will appreciate your expertise this year."

"What are you doing, Malfoy?"

Hand still outstretched, Draco freezes. "Saying hello, I believe."

Silence grows between them. Draco keeps his hand extended, though he knows it's been held out for far too long without being taken by someone else's.

"Piss off." Potter turns on his heel and storms from the hall.

Draco resists the urge to make a rude gesture before dropping his hand. He catches Minerva's uncertain glance as she walks past him, but he doesn't let any of his irritation show.

"Good evening, Headmistress," he says instead, giving her a smile and a slight bow of the head.

"Good evening, Draco."

He leaves with his dignity like a cloak around his shoulders, draped with care and grace. But once he closes the door to his rooms—he has to chase off a pair of Slytherins who'd been nestled together in one of the side hallways along the way, teenage romance be damned—he tosses it aside with a curse.

 _That ruddy bastard_ , he thinks, furiously opening his liquor cabinet and pulling out a bottle of whiskey. He sloshes it into a glass, then takes a fast, burning drink. _That utter self-righteous prick._

He falls into his chair, kicks his shoes off with more force than necessary. They crash onto the floor in a chaotic pile, and he glares at them before taking another drink.

Of course, the man can't be civil. Of course, he can't pretend like they've only just met and are colleagues who can work together with decorum and professionalism. _Of course_ , Potter is going to get away with being an arse about it while Draco will have to stew and storm in the privacy of his rooms.

Who cares if the packaging has become high-end and flash? Harry Potter is as much of a petulant child as he had been when he and Draco first met. Just because he's nice to look at doesn't mean he's nice to be around.

Draco finishes his drink, then pours another finger into the glass. If Minerva wants him to be polite and professional, he will be. He owes her that much for what she's given him. But he'll be damned if he'll be anything more or less than that. If Potter wants to let their childhood feud continue, he's welcome to it, but he won't be dragging Draco into that mess again. He shed that nonsense years ago, and there's no way he's picking it back up again. Certainly not if that's what Potter wants. The man has gotten enough of that in his lifetime. Draco won't be yet another person to give into The Chosen One's wants.

Prat.

He finishes his whiskey with a sullen sip, then readies himself for bed. He ignores the way the room blurs and spins, brushes his teeth with a singular focus, and then falls into bed face-first.

If Harry Potter is determined to be an arsehole about the whole thing, then Draco is going to be as polite and courteous as he possibly can be. It doesn't matter if that courtesy is motivated by spite. Draco is going to be the single nicest, most well-mannered wizard in all of Hogwarts history, and fuck Potter if he doesn't like it.

He falls asleep, planning his refined revenge and smiling the whole time.


	3. Chapter 3

He'd likely only admit it under Veritaserum, but Draco loves teaching, especially the first years. They come stumbling into his classroom like awkward puppies the next morning, bumping into each other with coltish arms and legs and newly budding friendships. They're all sunshine and excitement, and while he wants to smile back at them, charmed against his better judgement by their youth, he has a reputation to keep up.

It's a long-standing tradition at Hogwarts that the Potions Master be somewhere between mysterious and terrifying. Potions are, after all, a bit of a terrifying mystery, even to those who have mastered them, and whoever is in charge of teaching the subject to the young minds of wizarding Britain should mirror that in their behavior, or so he'd been told by other Masters. There'd been Snape, of course, who'd loomed and slunk his way through the school for years before Draco attended. And before Slughorn—who'd really thrown a wrench into things, honestly—there'd been Professor Vile, an aptly-named woman who some suspected was half-hag. Nothing that could be proven, of course, but her cackling portrait is tucked up in one of the higher, more remote towers for a reason.

That all means, of course, that while Draco wants to smile at his new students and let some of his own natural enthusiasm for the art of potions spill out, he keeps his face carefully neutral, hands clasped behind his back, robes buttoned tight to his throat. The dungeons are a bit less ominous than when Snape was Master here, but Draco's kept some of the more eye-catching specimens on the shelf behind his desk. He knows when the students see them—there's a particularly gruesome pickled gnome that is one of his favourites—because they all fall silent and uncertain, eyes wide and wondering and just a bit awed.

"Welcome to your first lesson in potions." He comes around from behind his work table, arms still crossed and his most Imperious Malfoy expression in place. "In this classroom, you will be taught the subtle art of taking seemingly incompatible ingredients and turning them into a single, unified whole. There will be no spellwork here. No flashy waving of wands or incantations. We do not divine the contents of our cauldrons from the stars. In this room, you will use much more… mundane methods to create magic. You will use your hands and your minds, both turned towards your tasks with focus and dedication, and you will create incredible things with them. You will learn how to bottle fame, brew glory, stopper death." He smiles here, remembering Snape's dour, beloved face. "You will learn how to create something as fantastic as any charm or transfiguration, as inconceivable as any divination, as lasting and permanent as any bit of history. And you will do it with only what is before you now."

He gestures towards their empty desks. They stare back with wide eyes and open mouths. He lets his smile grow, knowing he's caught them.

"Of course," Draco says again, letting his hands go behind his back, "you won't be able to do any of that if you don't have parchment and quills ready. Please take out your supplies. We'll be starting with a lecture, and then move onto some practical exercises."

They scramble for their bags. Parchment rustles and quills quiver, and then they're all seated, eyes locked on him again, ready.

He continues with his lecture, going over the basics of knife theory and the reasons that different materials are prepared in different ways. Belladonna is a fascinating example, and as he starts rhapsodizing about the different strengths of the plant when the leaves are cut in different ways, he catches a head drooping.

"Ms. Davies," he says curtly. The young Hufflepuff's head snaps up as if Draco had cast a stinging hex instead of just saying her name. "If you cannot pay attention to the lecture, you can stay after to review."

"Professor, I—"

"Do you understand when and why you have to cut across the stem, rather than along it?"

She shakes her head, face pale.

"Then you should pay close attention, or there will be worse consequences than spending an additional ten minutes with me, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. Professor."

"Good. Now, where were we?"

He continues with his lecture, silently pleased when he sees Davies frantically scribbling notes across her parchment, eyes only leaving him to make sure she hasn't run off the page. During the practicum part of the lesson, she is careful and precise with her knife, cutting along the edge with singular focus. He doesn't say anything to her, only nods in encouragement when she catches him watching. The light in her eyes at the silent praise is enough to finally bring a real smile to his face.

It took focus and effort, turning his students' fear into respect. During his early days, that fear mixed with hatred, and it made teaching an ordeal. Now, though, the hatred has lessened significantly. Only a few students, their parents veterans of the Second Wizarding War, still look at him with the simmering heat of disgust. If it bothers him, well, that's a secret he'll take to his grave.

He makes use of the fear while it's still present, though. He uses it to set his boundaries early, lets the first years know in no uncertain terms that his rule is law in the potions lab, and once they've settled into that routine, he softens. He's here to teach, after all, not send children screaming from his classroom. Not every day, at least.

Still, he does get a small curl of pleasure whenever he manages to startle one of them, especially when they jump. It's petty, yes, but when one works with slightly idiotic children, one has to get his joys where he can.

The older students are, of course, inured to his tactics by now. Some of the more confident ones even call him "Malfoy," dropping the Professor entirely. He tries not to think of Potter when Patrick Robinson, a fifth year Gryffindor with dark hair and tanned skin, greets him with it on his way into the OWLs practicum during the second week of classes.

" _Mr_ Robinson." His smile is sharp. "I hope you won't be blowing up any more of my cauldrons this year?"

"Only the ones you don't like, Professor." Robinson grins, then settles at a table.

"Compromise is an important skill. I'm glad you've already started learning it."

Of course, Robinson melts one of Draco's nicest classroom cauldrons a week later, covering himself and the floor around his seat with a very poorly brewed anti-paralysis potion that leaves half of the young man's body limp and senseless.

"Don't touch it," Draco warns the rest of the class, most of whom have managed to avoid the worst of the damage. "Robinson, get yourself to Madame Pomfrey, please. And for Merlin's sake, try not to injure yourself any further along the way."

Robinson flops his arm at Draco, only half of his face raised in a sheepish grin. "Yes, Professor Malfoy."

A quick _Scourgify_ cleans up the rest of the mess, but there's a smoking hole in the middle of the bench that keeps catching fire, no matter how many _Aguamenti_ charms he casts. He excuses the rest of the class early, after strongly reminding them to keep a close eye on their heat charms while brewing so that they can avoid further incidents such as this. Really, even his first years know these things by now.

All told, though, lessons go relatively smoothly for a massive building filled with unpredictable, half-trained magical children. Quidditch tryouts are an exciting mess, as usual. When he'd first come back to Hogwarts, Draco had thought there might be a faculty Quidditch team. He'd been a bit desperate to play again, and he'd been elated at the thought. Quietly devastated when he found out it wasn't an option, Madam Hooch suggested he referee, and he jumped at the chance. He's been doing it for the last two years, and while it's given him an exciting opportunity to learn who his students are outside of class, it's also brought out his slightly dormant House pride. 

He knows he's supposed to be impartial, but Draco is rather delighted by the Slytherin team this year. Their Seeker and team captain, Lyndall Hawkins, is in his seventh year and, judging by his performance during the team's first practice, desperate for the Quidditch Cup. They'd nearly had it the year before, but the Hufflepuff Seeker had snatched the glittering orb out from under Hawkins' nose, much to his annoyance. With the addition of a new second year student, Sheridan Wagstaff, Slytherin's also the only House team with an all-female Chaser core. Along with Wagstaff, there's Laurel Butrum and Artica Selwyn, and the three of them are brutally efficient. Though Draco's only watched the one practice so far, the girls are so in tune with each other they barely need to signal before the Quaffle is a red blur, passed back and forth so quickly, he can barely follow its motions, and through the goalposts. The Slytherin Beaters, Eliss Chatten and Nautica "Naughty" Routledge are vicious, and Draco has to admit that he's a bit scared of the pair of them on brooms, though Routledge is shockingly quiet in class and Chatten is one of the first upper students Draco turns to when he has a younger one in need of tutoring. Fenton Parslow, a third year and Keeper, is passable at best and the team's one weak spot. But even with that glaring hole in their defense, Draco thinks there's a good chance Slytherin could make it all the way to the Quidditch Cup, especially if Hawkins' passion spreads to the rest of the team.

As for potions, Draco is pleased to note a handful of first years who seem to have real promise, including Ms. Davies, which is more than he can say for his second and third year classes. Fourth year is comfortably mediocre. No one is an outstanding talent, but he doesn't have to worry about anyone accidentally poisoning themselves, either. Fifth year is… Well, Robinson is honestly one of the more even-keeled members of that class, if that says anything. Draco's sixth and seventh year students are too focused on NEWTs and what to do after graduation to really make much trouble, thank Merlin, and he enjoys the more one-on-one time with them as well.

By the end of the first month of classes, he's convinced this is going to be one of his best years yet.

Of course, he can't help but overhear the gossip about other professors. Students always have opinions about the people teaching them, and they rarely care whether that opinion will be overheard or not. It means that they go around, talking constantly about their professors in places where their professors can constantly hear them. At first, Draco found it annoying. Now, he's amused at how consistently they don't seem to care.

It's not really his fault that he takes the time to listen, honestly. If they didn't want him to hear their opinions and stories, they'd avoid him better.

Meredith Helmsworth, the Transfiguration professor, has only been here for a year, and she's still getting her feet under her. Draco hears of a rather exciting third year lesson where Helmsworth transformed a perfectly ordinary porcelain teapot into a _genbu_ that Hagrid wanted to keep instead of the tortoise she'd intended. Minerva saved the day and turned it back into a slightly rougher, longer handled, obsidian teapot. It now lives in the staff room and brews a particularly strong tea, no matter what blend they put in.

Trelawney has only predicted three students' deaths so far, which is a record low for this time of the year. Perhaps more astonishingly, the Grim has only been mentioned once. It's been foretold every year he's taught at least three times by the end of the first month of classes, though he's never known why Trelawney is so fond of the damn creature. As far as he can tell, the only large, shaggy black thing running around Hogwarts is Hagrid, and he's been turning distinctly silver lately.

Flitwick is a perennial favourite with the students, and since Draco has grown to know him as an adult, he's in perfect agreement. Filius—as he insists Draco call him—is kind and generous, and one of the few professors who had no issues with Draco's history when he joined the Hogwarts staff. Filius scoffed at it when Trelawney turned her pointed nose up, thick glasses sliding back, and walked out of the staff room when Draco arrived for his first day on staff. Dennis Creevey, the Muggle Studies professor, hadn't stayed much longer.

"It's a load of nonsense," Filius said, his voice high and clearly irritated. "You were children. How we expected any of you to make the decisions you did at that age is beyond me. Welcome to Hogwarts, young man. I'm sure you'll do quite well here."

And, of course, there's talk of Potter. First, it's awed whispers whenever students come hurrying into the potions room, heads bent together, books clutched to heaving chests. The girls—and some of the boys—giggle whenever his name is mentioned, and Draco catches at least one group of Ravenclaw students in the Great Hall with their chins propped on their hands, forks falling from their limp fingers, eyes glistening with barely repressed hero worship as they stare at Potter. The man was wearing simple black robes, kept his head down the entire meal, and shuffled out of the Hall before anyone could say a word to him. Draco didn't understand the appeal, honestly, and he thought Ravenclaws would have more sense than this.

The adoration, thankfully, fades as the weeks draw on. Now, Draco's hearing a handful of complaints.

"Professor Potter nearly fell asleep while we were practicing on Hinkypunks. I swear he snored."

"He showed us his _Patronus_ charm, but it seemed bored. It was really odd."

"Did you hear what happened when that second year asked him about werewolves? Totally lost it, stormed from the room. Poor girl didn't know what to do!"

There's that damned sympathy again, tugging at his heart while he tries to ignore it. But it's an insistent thing, leaving him lying in his bed at night, staring sightlessly at the top of his bed canopy, wondering how Potter is going to get through it all. Draco remembers how hard his first year teaching was, and even though Potter's only here temporarily, he's still going to have to figure out how to do the job at least somewhat adeptly or there'll be yet another year of Hogwarts students ill-prepared to battle the Dark Arts.

Though there are fewer dark wizards running around now than when Draco was a child, they're still out there. Most are in hiding, if they're from the time before the War. The Dark Lord's followers were snapped up easily by Aurors after he fell. Most ended up in Azkaban, like his father had, or were killed while resisting arrest. Some had retreated to their ancestral homes, shut and locked the doors, and ended things on their own terms. The Wizarding World rejoiced, announced their society cleaned of its darkest dregs, and prepared to come out of everything clean and whitewashed and golden.

But that's not how evil works, not in all the time that Draco's known it, seen it, tasted it. Evil has an insidious way of finding the smallest crack in a person and worming its way in with logic and reasonable expectations, ones that slowly twist a mind to something unrecognisable, something that only sees its own benefit, its own gains, rather than all of the people it steps on and destroys on its way to that goal. Evil makes you think you're doing good. That's the trick of it. The Dark Lord thought he was making the world better, and isn't that what everyone wants at the end of the day? A world left better than when one entered it?

Draco knows that the students need to be taught the lessons he and his classmates failed to learn. They need to not only fight evil, but to recognise it. He trusts Potter to know how to do that, since he knew evil in a way many wizards never would. Draco's heard stories, that Potter carried a piece of the Dark Lord around with him, that he was—at least in part—a piece of the Dark Lord's soul living outside of his body. If there's anyone out there specially trained to know evil when he sees it, it's Potter.

But even knowing that, it seems like Potter is incapable of transferring that knowledge in any meaningful way. From what they're saying in the corridors in too-loud whispers, he's failing yet another generation of students. It irritates Draco like clothes that fit too tight, or a rock in his shoe. It's a persistent, nagging thing that he can't shake. It eats at him, digs into his skin until it becomes part of his body, and all he can do is try to pick it free.

He catches glances of Potter in the hallways and in the staff room, but even though he looks miserable and lonely—Draco only enjoys it a little—he never stays for long. It's an easy excuse for why Draco never tries to approach Potter to offer his help. And it's not like the git would take it anyway. He'd made himself perfectly clear that first night how he felt about Draco Malfoy. No reason to go upsetting the man. After all, Draco promised Minerva he wouldn't meddle. Offering help and support qualifies, doesn't it?

He certainly doesn't prowl the hallways outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom during his free periods, listening quietly to the low murmur of Potter's voice and his students' responses. Doesn't press his back up against the wall next to the door to try and figure out what, exactly, Potter is doing in there.

"We'll be working on the Knockback Jinx today. It's a simple but effective offensive spell that can be countered with a _Protego_ or a _Finite Incantatum_."

Draco is stunned at how… _bored_ Potter sounds about it all. There's the quiet rustle of robes and the scrape of chairs being pushed back from desks. Draco expects the second years to be more excited about dueling, but there's a dull, lifeless quality to the noises they make. There's no excited chatter, no voices painted with the breathless thrill of getting to use offensive magic.

"Separate into two lines, please," Potter continues, voice flat and distracted. "One side will practice the jinx, while the other side defends. The incantation is _Flipendo_. Wands up."

Draco's almost through the door before he stops himself. He's not sure what he'd intended to do. Burst through the doors, haughty and contemptuous, sneering at Potter to show him how a real wizard handles his wand. And Merlin, he doesn't want to think about why his mind phrased it in exactly _that_ way. He flushes, feeling dumb and heavy-footed.

He knows the students would love to see him and Potter duel. Honestly, he'd love a chance at it, too. So much of his relationship—if one could even call it that—with Potter is built on their childhood feud. That constant back and forth that made up their years at Hogwarts together until it became more than a schoolboy lark and turned into something more deadly, dark and noxious. Part of him misses the predictability of it, though: of finding Potter lurking in the hallways and classrooms, his dark hair disappearing around corners as he trailed after Draco; staring at Potter from across the Great Hall, wondering what nonsense he'd be up to, what nefarious plot he thought he was unearthing _this_ time.

And the tension between them. That visceral, real power that crackled whenever they were in the room together. Draco remembers standing across from Potter in their second year, wands out, Snape and Lockheart behind them. Though they'd been in a crowded room, filled to the edges with their classmates, Draco had only had eyes for Potter. It had been a thrill to cast jinxes at him, to try and best The Boy Who Lived. 

But that had been when they were children and there wasn't a war and almost a decade without seeing the other. So instead of entering the room, instead of chasing the echoed memory of that electrical charge, Draco takes a careful step back, then another, refusing to give into the low thrum in his veins that the idea of fighting Potter has created. He's over that, he tells himself as he hurries back to the dungeons, and he has materials to prepare for his classes anyway.

But now he can't miss it, the way the competitive fire that used to define Potter has dimmed. His eyes are never raised far from the floor, and the limp that Draco had seen during the Start-of-Term Feast is more pronounced. He doesn't talk to the other teachers, other than Minerva and Hagrid, and sometimes Creevey, though Potter's body goes stiff and awkward after a few minutes. He avoids Trelawney like she has something catching. He barely eats, and judging by the growing dark circles under his eyes, he's not sleeping much, either.

Why _had_ Potter come back to Hogwarts in the first place? Last Draco remembers, he was a star Auror, hunting down dark wizards left and right, breaking up smuggling rings and busting through the doors of illegal potions operations. In the last cover story about him, the _Prophet_ had gleefully reported that he'd brought in two of the Dark Lord's followers, stragglers who had somehow evaded capture for almost a decade. It stuck in Draco's mind, though he wishes it hadn't. He recognised the pale, thin faces that stared out at him from the front page, with Potter in the back, glowing with success. Draco couldn't remember their names, a man and a woman, people who'd been at the Manor time and time again as he grew up. It still makes him shiver to think of it.

"Professor Malfoy."

He drops the parchment he'd been looking at sightlessly, startled. "Yes, of course."

Phillipa Fernsby, a third year Ravenclaw, stares back at him, her eyes confused. "I was just saying that we'd finished."

Draco looks around the room and sees a sea of confused faces. Their cauldrons are no longer bubbling, a purple glass bottle sitting neatly next to each one.

"Yes. You're all excused, thank you."

"What about the potions?" Her eyes have widened. "Aren't you going to test them?"

"Overnight," he says. "They need time to rest."

"Are you sure? I don't remember reading that in the—"

"Dismissed!"

She flinches, and he feels bad for a moment until he remembers that he's drifted off in front of his entire third year class while brooding about Harry bloody Potter. For a brief moment, he pretends to be his father, and he keeps his face perfectly neutral until everyone files from the room and he puts his head down on his desk with a heavy thunk.

He's going to have to do something about this, he thinks as he eats dinner that evening, taking vicious bites of roast chicken and potatoes. There's clearly something wrong with Potter, and if Draco's the only person who recognises it, then he's also the only person who is going to do something about it. He watches Potter as he eats his dinner, carefully cataloguing how many bites he takes, how much of his food he pushes around mindlessly, how long he stays at the table before beating a hasty retreat from the Great Hall.

Yes, there's clearly something going on, and Salazar be damned if Draco isn't going to get to the bottom of it.

He's still thinking through his plan of attack during his sixth year class the next day. His initial thought of confronting Potter directly had been tossed out almost as quickly as he'd conceived of it. He'd thought about slipping something into one of Potter's meals, but there are magics in place to prevent that, so it's out, too. Now, as he idly scans the students, grouped into pairs as they work on their NEWT projects, he's wondering where Potter's quarters are located and whether he can catch the man there, instead.

There's a sudden flash of light, and then Huxley Dankworth is stumbling back from his cauldron, coughing away smoke and batting furiously at his sleeve.

The potion he'd been brewing—an attempt at a counter-poison to a combination that Draco had brewed specifically for the task—is on fire. Great green and orange flames leap from the mouth of the cauldron, and thick, black smoke pours out of the top. Draco can feel the heat from his desk.

"Get back!" he shouts, his wand already drawn as he leaps over his desk. " _Praefoco_!"

A shimmering golden ball forms over the cauldron in a snap, then collapses in on itself. The flames beat at the surface for a brief moment, and Draco can feel the magical fire fighting against his suffocation spell. But as he bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, focusing his casting, they gutter, then go out.

" _Purifico_." The smoke curling near the ceiling turns from black to blue-white, then disappears entirely, leaving behind the soft smell of fresh pine and cotton. He turns on the young man, half of his mind still holding the suffocation spell until he's certain the flames are out. "Dankworth. What were you thinking?"

The young man is still coughing, his face pale and covered in soot. "I'm sorry, Professor, I wasn't—"

"No, you weren't! What do you think happens when you burn poison?"

"I don't know, Professor. It was an accident, honest. I don't know how it happened."

"Through your carelessness, of course. But you did not answer my question. What do you think," he roars, his voice shaking, "happens?"

Dankworth starts coughing again.

"It goes into the smoke," Draco snarls. "Someone, take him to the Hospital Wing. Tell Madam Pomfrey I'll be down with an antidote shortly. The rest of you can go."

The room is silent except for Dankworth's coughing. No one moves.

"Now!"

There's a mad rush as students snap up their bags, cauldrons forgotten, and nearly run from the room.

Once everyone has left, Draco stands by Dankworth's cauldron, panting. He hadn't realised how fast his breath was coming, how fast his heart was beating, while the potion had smoked and flamed before him. Hadn't realised he'd been so close to panic as it fought against his protection. Now, he's gripping his wand like a lifeline, staring at the golden shield gathered around the poison that had nearly filled the room with deadly smoke.

"I knew you hadn't changed."

Potter is standing in the empty doorway, his eyes hard, expression dark.

"Professor Potter." Draco fights for calm, knows he needs it now. Maybe more than he's ever needed it before.

"I don't know why I listened," Potter continues. "You even have Hagrid fooled, don't you? But here you are"—he gestures to the empty room and the simmering cauldrons—"terrifying students, screaming at them when they need your help. You're just a bully with a fancy title. Just like Snape. Just like your father."

"That's enough."

"Is it?" Potter laughs and the sound is empty of joy. "They're your students, Malfoy. You're supposed to protect them."

"I _am_ ," he says, his voice tight with repressed anger and the low boil of fear. "He was careless and put himself and the rest of his class at serious risk."

Potter scoffs. "Like he didn't know he'd fucked up. You didn't have to tear the skin from him for it."

"It's my classroom."

"They're children."

"They're my _students_ , and you'd best refrain from speaking to me about educating them properly when you can barely do your own damned job. Now, get out of my classroom. I've an antidote to brew, unless you'd like to send Mrs. Dankworth an owl explaining why her son _died_."

Potter opens his mouth to say something, but before he can get another word out, Draco wordlessly casts _Colloportus_ , slamming the door to his classroom shut and locking it. 

He stands before the still-smothered cauldron, places a stasis charm on it. In the cabinet behind his work bench is a smaller sample of the blended poison. He adds yew and rosewater, three drops of gillyweed essence. With a quick shake, the dark poison turns a bright shade of grass green, flecked with white. He carries it to Madam Pomfrey, waits while she administers it to a pale and shaking Dankworth. The young man's color improves, though he gags at the taste. Pomfrey places a gentle hand on Draco's arm, her eyes soft and understanding.

He leaves. Walks to his quarters with students bustling around him, talking in happy voices. He closes his door, falls into his armchair, and falls apart.

There are eight students in his sixth year NEWTs class. Huxley Dankworth, Patricia Barlow, Miles Adney, Starr Collingsworth, Reed Pinnick, Vail Clements, Kipling Watwood, and Kell Eckersley. They were all twelve when he started teaching. He's seen their growth spurts, their awkward attempts at relationships, their ups and downs. He has watched them grow from impossibly young children to impossibly young adults. And he nearly saw them all die today.

He's shaking. The hands pressed to his face tremble, even when he digs them hard into his eyes. Lights spark behind his eyelids, and he's reminded of the bright flash and Dankworth's wide, white eyes. Slowly, quietly, he forces himself to breathe. A gentle rush of air past his chapped lips, the cold breath heavy on his tongue, flowing into his lungs to settle there, oxygen passing into his bloodstream, then carbon dioxide pushing out with the relaxing of his diaphragm, and air gathering in the back of his throat and out through his lips. He follows it, again and again, washing away his panic with pure, simple air.

With a final, calm exhale, he stands. He isn't shaking any longer.

The walk back to his classroom doesn't take long. His quarters are nearby, thankfully. He unlocks the door, then sets to cleaning everything up. He'd turned off the burners earlier, but now he covers his student's cauldrons, sets their materials under careful stasis charms so they don't spoil. Finally, he takes Dankworth's cauldron into the smaller room off the back of the classroom. It's not much, just a sink and a workbench and a few cabinets hanging askew on the wall. But it's his private workroom, so he has specialized materials here.

After triggering a whirlwind jinx that funnels air from the room to a remote area outside of the castle, Draco slides on thick dragonhide gloves and a pair of goggles that have been spelled with every protective charm he knows. A mask goes on after those, one with heavy purification spells in the cover so that he can't breathe in any harmful fumes. He puts a heavy rubber apron on over his robes—he'd found it while studying Muggle chemistry and had been impressed with the simple, yet effective, protection it offered—and then he takes the stasis charm off of Dankworth's cauldron.

It thankfully doesn't reignite when reintroduced to the air, but his suffocation spell and the stasis charm after that had trapped some of the thick black smoke. It floats lazily out, peaceful and deadly. Draco watches as the whirlwind spell wicks it away, and lets out his held breath as soon as the air is clear.

He spends the next hour neutralizing the poison in the cauldron. Once he's certain it's inert, he vanishes it. It's likely more than he needs to do, but he's never known where vanishing spells actually vanish things _to_ , and he'd rather not throw a cauldron full of poison into some random place on the earth. After scrubbing the cauldron clean, he sets it out to dry. He washes his equipment, places it next to the cauldron, and leaves his classroom.

It's late now, and the hospital wing is empty. There's only one bed occupied. Dankworth looks much smaller than he had when he'd walked into Draco's classroom that afternoon. His eyes are closed, and there are dark circles beneath them. When Draco pulls up a chair next to his bed, the boy startles awake. He blinks blearily at Draco, then goes still.

"Professor."

"Mr Dankworth." Draco's fingers tangle together. "I wanted to come and see how you were doing."

"Much better," he says, full of fear. "Thank you for the potion earlier. It helped a lot."

"I'm glad."

Silence fills the room like smoke, and Draco hates every second of it.

"I also wanted to apologize," he finally says. "I was unduly harsh earlier."

"No," Dankworth says. He sits up, though he winces as he does, one of his hands going to his ribs. "You were right. I should have been more careful."

"I don't think you were being reckless, just young. I'm glad you weren't too badly hurt."

Dankworth winces again, but from embarrassment this time. "How bad would it have been?"

Draco doesn't want to remember a line of covered bodies, the Hogwarts bridge burning quietly in the distance, the smell of smoke and spells heavy in the air, his hair dirty and unkempt, his wand clenched in Potter's hand.

"Bad."

"All right, then," Dankworth says. He sounds certain, like he's made a decision. "I'd best stop with my potions NEWT, then."

Draco's head jerks up. "What? Why?"

"Well, I nearly killed everyone, didn't I?"

"That doesn't mean you shouldn't get your NEWT, son."

He doesn't mean to use the word. It slips out before he realises it's the one he's going to use. But that's how he sees this young man that he's watched grow, as if he belongs to Draco in some way. The knowledge of it hits him like a weight in the chest, tastes bitter like a father's love.

"Why shouldn't it?" Dankworth looks angry now, unaware of Draco's internal turmoil and only wrapped up in his own.

"Because"—Draco swallows, tries again—"because if you love it, you should have it. We've all made mistakes, Huxley. That doesn't mean you can't learn from them or become something better because of them."

Dankworth nods, eyes downcast as he thinks. It goes quiet again, but this time it feels peaceful, settled. It's like the tension they'd both been holding in their bodies has dissipated, cleared from the room on a wisp of air to some other, unknown place.

"If you really want me to…" he finally says, eyes still locked on his hands.

"I do. You're a good student."

The boy flushes, and Draco takes that as his sign to go. He's said enough kind things for one evening.

"Rest, please, and I'll see you at our next class."

"Yes, Professor. And thank you. Again."

Draco reaches for the boy's shoulder, then stops, fingers curling into his palm. "Of course, Mr Dankworth. Good evening."

He leaves, but not before he catches Madam Pomfrey, standing still and silent behind a curtain, her eyes bright and her mouth turned into a smile as he walks past.

* * *

His room is dark, now that the spells have been dimmed and the curtains around his bed drawn. His hair is still wet from his bath and clings to his neck like a lover's touch. He brushes it aside, feeling tired to the bone. 

There's a gentle glow from the fireplace. It glints and glances off the walls and the embroidery of his duvet. Draco watches the fire with half-lidded eyes as he lays on his side, already starting to doze.

He doesn't expect the nightmares, though part of him thinks he should have. Flames licking across his skin. Ash and soot clinging to his face. Smoke, thick and acrid in his nose. Greg's body, limp and heavy against his own. There's a door in the distance, but as he watches, it moves farther and farther away, obscured by green and orange fire. Somewhere, he hears Vince screaming.

Hopelessness smothers him. He starts to cry, but it's so hot, the tears evaporate as they roll down his cheeks. They burn and sting, the salt of them digging into the bubbling flesh on his face. He screams, clutches Greg closer to him so at least he won't be alone when he dies.

Then a warm hand wraps around his, dragging his unsteady body onto the familiar solidity of a broom. He buries his blistered face into the body in front of him, eyes shut, and hopes. The sweat-dampened shirt pressed against his skin smells like fresh air and green grass and golden wings fluttering against his palm. But it's hard and unforgiving, and when it slides away, he's left in the dark, cold and miserable and aching, screams echoing around him.

Draco wakes, gasping. He's covered in sweat, his nightshirt clinging to his skin and his hair stuck to his face. Groaning, he leans forward, pressing his forehead to his knees. His body shivers and shudders, and he tries to breathe.

He knows why he had the nightmare. It's a familiar one, one he has whenever he's reminded of death and fire. It's no surprise that after the excitement of the day he'd wake up with the taste of ash in his mouth.

Though it's been long enough that the details aren't as sharp as they used to be, he doesn't think of that night. He doesn't let his mind linger on those memories. He doesn't remember the flames as they devoured his friend or the sweet smell of burning flesh. He doesn't remember his last conversation with Vince. 

A dull knife cuts deeper than a sharp one.

Awake now, he climbs out of his bed to check the time. It's still early in the morning, but perhaps too late to try to find sleep again. Instead, he starts a kettle boiling. The ritual calms him. The addition of tea leaves. The careful count of minutes as they steep. Milk, then tea, then honey. On mornings like these, he needs the sweet richness coating his tongue. The cup warm in his hands, he settles into his chair before taking a sip and letting his head drop onto the backrest.

Dankworth doesn't even _look_ like Vincent Crabbe. 

It's all Potter's fault, Draco figures. Just a short time in the same building as The Boy Who Lived, and Draco can't find peaceful sleep. It's no different than when they had been students. He'd spent so much of his childhood obsessing over the prat. Why should his adulthood be any different?

He takes another sip of tea, then sets the cup aside and runs a hand over his face. He'd done so well. He'd forgotten, dammit. He'd made a new life for himself, put the past behind him. But with Potter here… It's like it's sixth year all over again, with Potter stalking him through the hallways and Draco wondering when he'll slip up enough to be caught doing… whatever it is he's doing now, which is teaching and trying to stop children from killing themselves and others through idleness or distraction. He's not fixing Vanishing Cabinets or handing out cursed lockets. He's grading papers and testing potions and doing his damned job, one that Minerva trusts him to do well. And he _has_ been doing it well. He's five years into it. He's got his feet underneath him. How dare Potter come storming into Draco's classroom, his eyes bright with righteous fury and the certainty of inexperience, and tell him how to teach.

Scrubbing his hands over his face again, he forces himself to leave the chair. Reminding himself of all the terrible things he did in his youth because Potter's decided to try his hand at teaching is a pointless endeavor. And if all he's going to do is brood uselessly in his room, he can brood usefully in his personal lab instead.

As he moves around the familiar space, his notebooks scattered across the counter and his cauldron bubbling quietly on its burner, he decides that Potter will have to come to him for help if he wants it. Draco won't be drawn into it again, this mindless fascination with The Boy Who Lived. His students need to come first. There's been one close call already, and potions is far from a stable artform.

Now that he's taught it for a few years, he understands why Snape was as harsh as he was. Potions brewing takes a singular focus to do right. Sloppiness is a surefire way to hurt someone, as Dankworth so aptly demonstrated the day before. 

Draco owes his students their safety.

He doesn't owe Potter anything.

* * *

Draco avoids the third floor entirely. He starts arriving extra early to meals, then wolfs down his food with as much grace and civility as he can manage with a mouth full of steak and kidney pie. If he sees a flash of black hair or green eyes, he politely excuses himself and sneaks into the kitchens after class for a quick bite. The house-elves are wary at first, but warm to him as his visits grow more and more frequent.

Now, he's stuck trying to beg off from taking a paper-wrapped parcel and jug of lemonade.

"It's fine, Dippy," he says to the most insistent of the staff. He holds up the half sandwich wrapped in brown paper already clutched in his hand. "This will do me until dinner, I'm sure."

"But Professor is so thin." Her large eyes grow larger as she stares at Draco mournfully. "The students need you to be strong so you can teach them. What will they do if Professor starves to death?"

One would think that growing up with house-elves, especially one as persistent and fatalistic as Dobby, would have prepared Draco to fend off the worst of Dippy's advances. But Dobby had been attentive and, in his own way, kind to Draco when he was growing up, and looking into those brown, tear-rimmed eyes, he feels his resistance falter, then come tumbling down like a child's sandcastle in the surf.

"Okay, okay." He has to juggle things a bit, but he's got a pocket in his robe big enough for his second sandwich, and though it's a bit heavy, he can carry the jug in one hand and the package in the other. "Thank you, Dippy."

She nearly glows from the praise. "Professor does not need to thank Dippy. Dippy is happy to help."

He'd awkwardly pat her head if his hands weren't full already. Not sure how to leave gracefully, he gives up trying and flees with an abrupt nod.

There's no good place to put food in his quarters, and he'd never store anything edible with the potions ingredients that need to be kept chilled. He heard a horror story when getting his mastery about someone putting their lunch too close to an open container of dried Deadlyius mushrooms, and he's never considered it since.

Since there's nowhere else to pawn the food and drink off, he hurries to the faculty lounge and hopes that it's empty. Lunch will be ending shortly, so it should be, but when he pushes his way into the room, shoulder shoved so hard against the heavy oak door that it hits the wall with a solid thud, he finds two people he would rather not see, together or individually, and certainly not now.

Potter stands up, but Longbottom sees it's Draco, rolls his eyes, and throws his arm over the back of his chair.

"Professor." He quirks up an eyebrow. "Need a hand?"

"Actually, yes." Draco's still holding the door open, but he's not sure he can get into the room without it closing on him, and he'd really like to hand his burdens over to either of the two men inside and bid a hasty and tactical retreat.

Longbottom rises to his feet, but Potter waves him away before moving towards Draco, his limp barely noticeable. He reaches for the pitcher of lemonade, but Draco shoves the package at Harry instead, not wanting to run the risk of their fingers brushing.

It stills against Potter's firm chest, Draco acutely aware of the muscles there, and it's somehow worse. "Thank you," Draco chokes out before using his now free hand to hold the door open long enough to enter the room. "I'll just put this here."

He sets the lemonade down on the table where Longbottom is sitting, arm still thrown over the back of his chair with indolent disregard for Draco's clearly panicked state, eyebrow still raised in greeting. "I have no idea what's in that"—he gestures towards the package that Potter is already opening—"but the house-elves never make bad food, so you two should be fine. Apologies for interrupting."

"You could join us," Longbottom says. His eyes are smiling, though his mouth isn't. "I'm sure you must be hungry. I don't remember seeing you in the Great Hall for breakfast this morning."

"Thank you." Draco makes a mental note to murder Longbottom later. The whole time, Draco had thought their breakup amicable, but clearly, that had been a misapprehension. "That's very kind of you."

It's some small relief that Potter looks as excited by the prospect as Draco is. Longbottom pulls some seeds out of his robe pocket and transfigures them into glasses before pouring lemonade for each of them. Potter finishes opening the package, and Draco feels an immediate twinge of regret that he didn't squirrel the food away for himself.

Stacked in a neat pile in the middle of the parchment are three perfectly crafted hand pies. The edges are golden brown, the crust twisted into a complicated trellis of winding vines and flowers. He breathes in the smell of roast chicken and heavy cream and just a hint of thyme and onion.

"The house-elves like you," Potter says quietly before taking a pie.

"As they should."

Both Potter and Longbottom refrain from saying anything, but they share a look that makes Draco frown. He takes a pie, annoyed, and bites into it with more force than necessary.

The pastry flakes apart in his mouth, and the filling rushes in after. It all blends on his tongue, buttery and savory and delicious, and against his will, he lets out a soft moan of contentment.

Longbottom grins, quick and gloating. "I've heard that before."

Draco chokes.

"What?" Potter asks, green eyes darting between Longbottom and Draco with pointed intensity.

"Must be off," Draco says through his mouthful of pie. "Have a lovely afternoon, Professors."

The door slams shut behind him, but not before Draco hears Longbottom's booming laugh and Potter's voice raised in shock and anger.

Draco stops avoiding the Great Hall after that. At least with a room full of people, he has a buffer. But he still remembers the feel of Potter's chest beneath his hands and the flash of his eyes, and Potter's voice, full of anger and the knowledge that he's right, that he's always been right about Draco.

And Draco thinks of Dankworth, alone and scared and too pale in his hospital bed, and knows that he'll spend the rest of this year proving Potter wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

Once Draco stops trying to avoid Potter, he realises that the man isn't difficult to evade at all. Even being hyper aware of Potter's presence—though Draco is unwilling to admit that he's anything but casually interested in the man's whereabouts—Draco struggles to catch sight of him outside of the staff lounge and the Great Hall. Unlike the other teachers, Potter doesn't loiter in the halls. Doesn't talk to students outside of his classroom or linger after meals to chat with friends or faculty. That damned insistent voice in the back of Draco's mind tells him this should be concerning, but he silences it with a sharp rebuke and a reminder of the way Potter's eyes narrowed as they took in Draco and the empty classroom, the cauldron, and Draco suffocating within.

It is odd, though, that the Wizarding World's golden boy seems tarnished. There's something _off_ about Potter, and it nags at Draco, the wrongness of it all, even when he doesn't want it to. But where Harry Potter used to glint, used to catch the light that came from being simply good and reflected it back into the world, now, he absorbs it. It might be the heavy, dark robes he favors, or the shaggy fall of his hair draped haphazardly around his face. It might be the gruff sound of his voice echoing in the halls or the shuffling steps he takes whenever he leaves a room. But whatever it is, the glow that used to surround the man is dimming, dimmed.

Draco's preoccupied by it. He doesn't want to call it fascination because it's too dark for that emotion. Fascination implies something alluring, charismatic, magnetic. His mindless fixation has none of that optimism. This is compulsion, mania, an unhealthy thing twisting its skeletal fingers into his brain almost to the point of pain. He fights it because he has no choice but to. Anything less than that would drag Draco back to a place he thought he'd left behind himself years ago, faded like the Mark on his arm. But the Mark is still there, even if he likes to pretend it isn't, and his eyes still trail Potter when he walks into the Great Hall and when he leaves.

He thinks he should talk to Minerva or Hagrid about it. They've both known Potter since he was a boy, have stayed in touch with the man after graduation and during the intervening years. But in the same way that Draco knows his not-actually-an-obsession is better left unexamined, he knows drawing attention to Potter will only result in disaster. While both Minerva and Hagrid are kind and compassionate—something that Draco has learned firsthand over the last four years—they are also Gryffindors, and whatever is wrong with Potter requires subtlety he knows they both lack. The thought makes him smile, imagining three bricks bashing into each other and hoping to make a wall but creating a pile of dust instead. If either of them had been in Ravenclaw or even Hufflepuff, they might be useful, but as it stands, they're lions, ready to roar in the face of adversity and drown out all of the subtle, quiet things that Potter isn't saying.

Longbottom could be an option, but considering Potter's less-than-enthusiastic response to the revelation that Draco and Longbottom had been… something in the past, Draco's going to not head down that particular path. He also isn't entirely sure that Longbottom would be helpful, his own sense of twisted logic and karma likely to work against, rather than for, Draco. If Snape were in a conveniently located portrait in the castle—he lives in the ones in the Headmistress's office or at the very top of the staircases most of the time, well away from students and anyone else who might bother him—Draco would ask him instead. But since Snape isn't an option, and Draco absolutely needs someone with Slytherin sensibilities, he figures he's stuck with Pansy, as much as she'll likely laugh at him for asking. He heads to the Owlery with a hastily penned letter and sends one of the school's fastest great horned owls off to find her. Her last letter said she was in London, but Pansy has taken to globetrotting after marrying Theodore Nott and becoming a kept woman, and there's a chance she's in Japan or America or lost in the Amazon, Draco doesn't really know. Whatever the case, he doesn't know when he'll hear from her, and, at least for now, he's on his own with his Potter-shaped problem.

Falling asleep is a bit of a chore, Draco's mind whirling with concerns both concrete and ephemeral. It's long minutes in the muted darkness of his bed, the blankets both soft and confining as if they were the gentle, nearly imperceptible vines of Devil's Snare wrapping around his body instead of linen. But he does sleep, eventually.

* * *

Longbottom would probably call it lurking, but Draco insists—only to himself, because honestly, it's bad enough having to deal with it in his mind alone—that he's just going for a stroll through the castle, wandering the endless corridors and staircases. There are so many of them, after all, and he's never been one for idleness. Physical activity, even something as sedate and mindless as walking, soothes him, and with the weather they've been having lately, walking through the grounds feels too much like being a romantic heroine wandering the moors and wondering when her love will return from sea. Draco may have a dramatic streak, but he's never been one for maudlin plotlines, no matter how much evidence he might have to the contrary. Tragedy has never appealed. He's too Slytherin for it.

Stuck in his own mind, wondering what he would do if he were lost on the moors, he almost doesn't hear it as he walks past the Defense classroom. The walls are thick, the door is nearly shut, and his internal monologue is getting rather exciting. But as Draco draws closer, he makes out the quiet murmur of voices. Checking his wristwatch, he frowns. It's well past the end of the last lessons for the day, and students aren't allowed in the classrooms without special permission. Getting his best Disappointed Professor face ready, Draco squares his shoulders and pushes the classroom door open, lips already parted on a cutting reprimand for whomever he finds inside.

Only, instead of two misbehaving students, Draco finds something that his mind struggles to make sense of. In the middle of the room are two Harry Potters. The men are facing each other, their profiles turned towards Draco. The one closest to him looks like the Potter that Draco saw this morning. Dark hair just a bit too long and as unruly as ever, his green eyes shielded by thick glass. The anger that is omnipresent on his face whenever Draco is around has been replaced with a vacant stare that makes Draco shiver. Potter's robes sit comfortably on his shoulders, though, the body under the fabric trim and heavy with muscles, but they're lax, not tense with the blank panic that covers the man's face.

Across from him, the Other Potter is a mess. His eyes are dull and lifeless with dark circles like bruises underneath. His cheeks are sunken and hollow, any hint of muscle a faded memory. Hair greying at the temples and receding, it's tangled and too long, hanging in a dirty mat down his back. His robes look like they're on a hanger rather than shoulders. Draco can make out the sharp cut of his clavicle, the flesh underneath wasted and thin to the point of emaciation. And more than anything else, this gaunt, cadaverous version of Potter seems to glow with darkness. It pours off of his body in imperceptible waves, a sensation more than a physical thing. But it makes Draco stop breathing, seeing this worst-case-scenario of a man that used to be so full of life and light.

Other Potter raises a nearly skeletal hand, and as it's reaching for Harry, Draco's reaching for his wand, not sure what spell he should ready, only knowing that he needs one. A stunning spell is on his lips, about to leap free, when he takes in the open cupboard behind the pair, and a barely remembered, overheard conversation from some third year students about _boggarts_ slips into his mind.

" _Stupefy_!" he shouts, and the boggart turns towards him, its dying-grass green eyes locking on Draco as he steps forward and pushes Potter to the side, taking his place instead.

The wizened version of Potter starts to shift, to change. Its fading, unkempt hair grows, turning smooth and silver. It gains inches. Its nose becomes patrician, its eyes grey like Draco's own. And as Draco realises what shape the boggart is about to take, he freezes, but then chooses not to move. Whatever truth is about to be revealed about Draco is somehow less painful than seeing Potter's worst fear and realizing that it's himself.

Draco does wonder, as he watches the boggart finish its transformation, if he really is living in some twisted gothic novel after all. Instead of the haggard version of Potter, Draco's father stands before him. But it's not a Lucius Malfoy that Draco recognises. It's a warmer approximation of the man. The sharpness that defined his father is softened somehow. His cheeks are fuller, their color a warm shade of rose instead of porcelain white. His hair is hanging loose, rather than pulled back into its usual sleek, nearly painful, braid. His dress robes, almost always fastened to the bottom of his chin and ironed with lines sharp enough to cut, are open and creased. There's a hint of a stain along the cuff of his shirt, revealed as he reaches both of his arms towards Draco.

"Draco, my boy," his father says, smiling wide. It crinkles the corners of his eyes, something Draco had never seen as a child, much less as an adult. "Come here. I've missed you so much. You must tell me how you've been."

Frozen, Draco is unable to stop the boggart before it wraps his father's arms around Draco, pulling him close enough that he can smell the hint of his father's cologne. The silver-blond hair that tickles his face is soft, the arms around his shoulders strong, and Draco has never been so afraid in his life.

" _Riddikulus_ ," his whispers into his father's chest, and as the boggart pulls away, its robes turning bright pink and sparkling with sequins, Lucius's long, silver hair flowing into an outrageous up-do, Draco closes his eyes tightly so he can't see the love still etched across the creature's face, can't be fooled by it. Not again.

As the boggart disappears into the cabinet behind it, Draco takes a step back and turns to face Potter. He's barely completed the motion before the man is on him, screaming.

"What the hell do you think you're playing at, Malfoy?" Potter shouts, spittle flying from his lips.

Shocked and off-balance, Draco tries to step away, but Harry has his hands wrapped in the thick fabric of Draco's robes, and he can't move. "I don't… I heard…" he stammers, wrapping his hands around Potter's straining wrists.

"I don't care what you heard," Potter snarls, shaking Draco. "What the hell are you doing here? Why won't you leave me alone?"

Draco wrenches Potter's hands from his robes and takes a step back. Silently summoning his wand to his hand—it had fallen from his grasp when Potter accosted him—Draco holds it up between them. "I thought I heard students, Potter. Now, calm down, and let's discuss this like adults instead of children."

"As if you'd ever discuss anything with me," Potter says before grabbing his own wand and taking a dueling stance. "You've made it perfectly clear, time and time again, that you don't want anything but a fight. So if that's what you were looking for, you've bloody well found it."

"Calm down, you prat," Draco shouts. " _Expelliarmus_!"

Potter dodges the charm before throwing a Bat-Bogey Hex at him.

"Merlin, Potter," Draco says as he dodges it easily, "stop spending so much time with the Weasley girl. Didn't they teach you anything in Auror school?"

Briefly considering the poor judgement it must take to taunt a furious wizard best known for killing someone, Draco is knocked off his feet when Potter's well-placed _Stupify_ sends him careening into the wall next to the boggart's cupboard. Draco rolls to his side, coughing and groaning. Potter's hurried steps are muffled by the ringing in Draco's ears. He barely gets his wand up in time to deflect whatever spell Potter throws next. It crashes into the wall, leaving a cloud of dust as the stone explodes next to his head.

"What are you trying to do?" Draco coughs out, blocking another spell as he takes in Potter's hunched shoulders. "Kill me?"

"Fight me!" Potter shouts instead of answering the damned question.

Draco blocks another spell, then another, his hand stinging with each deflection, the power of Potter's spells growing as he stalks forward. Draco's blocking hexes too fast to be afraid. Back to the wall, legs splayed in front of him, he hopes he'll be lucky enough for Potter to come to his senses and stop this bloody nonsense before someone gets hurt.

Then again, Draco has never considered himself all that lucky.

Potter is panting when he stops in front of Draco's tangled form. Sweat beads at his temple. His eyes are wild and unfocused. Slowly, his wand raises, points directly at the center of Draco's chest.

"Going to use _Sectumsempra_ next?" Draco gasps out, fighting for calm, for time.

The words are like throwing water over a fire. All of the anger inside of Potter is extinguished in a rush, flowing out of his body like steam and leaving a structure about to collapse behind. He stumbles back.

"I wouldn't," he says, voice still tainted by fury. "I wasn't…"

Draco pushes himself to standing, his muscles and bones crying out against the motion. "You could have fooled me, the way you were carrying on," he snaps, brushing at the dust and wrinkles on his robes, as if wiping those away will wipe away the fear still racing beneath his skin. "Bloody hell, do you have any idea how long it took for them to fix this place? I swear, you nearly brought the ceiling down, you idiot."

Harry takes one more step back, his wand falling from his hand, Draco's words finally getting through. His face slowly pales. At his sides, his hands start to shake. Draco frowns, trying to understand what's happening, when Harry crumples to the floor. Stunned, Draco watches as The Boy Who Lived curls in on himself, face buried in his calloused hands.

"Potter?" Draco takes a hesitant step forward. "What in the hell are you doing?"

The man flinches, curling in on himself tighter. Draco doesn't know what to do, especially when he hears the first gasping sob break free from Potter's mouth.

With a rush, Draco is pulled back to his—their—sixth year and the cold, wet tile of a bathroom floor. Myrtle's voice murmuring in his ear, nasal and yet still comforting, and then Potter, standing over him in the doorway, eyes wide with shock and pity.

He'd lashed out then, reacting like a wounded animal and attacking anyone coming near him. The _Cruciatus_ curse had fallen from his mouth without thought, and he'd regretted it almost as soon as he'd cast it. The sharp sting of _Sectumsempra_ had knocked him out of that stupor, though. His blood was hot and red, and he wondered whether he was about to be the first Malfoy to die in a damned bathroom.

Looking at Harry Potter, the Savior of the Wizarding World, curled in on himself on a classroom floor, Draco can't help but think of that scared sixteen-year-old version of himself. All he wanted was for someone to help, to save him from his own choices. And here he is, with Harry Potter pooled before him like blood on tile, needing the same.

Draco takes a hesitant step forward. He's on the edge of something, though he doesn't know what it is yet. But there's a choice before him, one he almost doesn't want to make. Potter isn't the same man he was when they graduated. Draco isn't even sure if Potter's the same man that walked into the Great Hall a little over a month ago, soaked to the bone and defiantly not casting a drying charm. There's something very wrong here, something that Draco knows is tied up in the boggart and Potter's senseless anger and the limp that seems to worsen whenever Potter notices Draco watching—but never after hurrying up stairs or pacing the long, cold corridors of the castle. Whatever he does next, it will change so very many things in Draco's simple, ordered life.

He doesn't know if that will be a good thing or a very, very bad one.

But he moves with purpose, not letting any of that uncertainty show. He places his hand on Harry's shoulder, crouching down before he can think any longer and talk himself out of it.

"It's all right," he says quietly.

He expects Potter to flinch, to pull away. He expects harsh words used like a sword, meant to cut him open. Instead, the too-tight curl of Potter's body softens, eases, and he raises his eyes to Draco, their color somehow deeper for the tears.

"What are you doing, Malfoy?" His voice is ragged, exhausted, as if it's the second of May and Hogwarts is burning around them.

"Trying to help."

Potter, head bent, hair partially hiding his face, huffs out something that's a mix between a laugh and a choked sob. "Why do you care?"

"Because someone has to." He squeezes the man's shoulder. "You're clearly doing a shit job of it yourself, if this is enough to bring you to tears."

Potter laughs, the sound clear this time. "I was going to kill you."

"As if I'd let you."

"I've killed people before."

Draco sighs, aiming for an easy nonchalance while his heart races. "We all know about your heroics, Potter. You hardly have to posture for my sake. I promise you, I won't be impressed."

"You're such an arse."

"Of course. Now, why don't you peel yourself off of the floor, and we'll have tea like civilized wizards."

"Tea?"

"Of course. Unless you'd rather go back to slinging hexes about, willy-nilly?"

"No." Potter shakes his head. "No, tea sounds brilliant."

"Right." Draco squeezes Potter's shoulder again, not entirely sure how to get his hand back now that the tension has broken. "I'll call for service."

He stands and gravity solves the problem for him. His hand falls from Potter's shoulder, hangs limply by Draco's side. But somehow, it feels different, that one touch seared into his skin and bone like the Mark, indelible and somehow a warning, though Draco doesn't know what he should be afraid of. 

Not yet.

* * *

Shockingly, having tea with one’s childhood nemesis after seeing said nemesis have an emotional breakdown in the middle of an empty classroom is awkward. As Draco pours two cups of steaming hot tea, he wonders at the incongruity of it all. It's such an odd thing to have, a childhood nemesis, as if he and Potter were in a Muggle comic book—complete with ridiculous names and outfits—instead of being two adults with lives separate from those years spent together. Staring through the steam that floats around Potter's face as he cradles his cup between his rough hands, Draco wonders at the transfiguration that nearly a decade of time can enact on someone. Like turning a tea kettle into a tortoise, creating a separate, living thing from something else entirely. The man before him, now that Potter is still, is nothing like the person Draco remembers or had read about in the papers.

Not that he read those articles.

Shit.

"Why are you here?" Draco asks before his brain can catch up with his mouth and make him shut up. He already _knows_ why Potter is here. Minerva told Draco at the Start-Of-Term Feast, and he has somehow managed to memorise every detail of Potter's current situation (against his will) in the interim. He'd even dug out the copy of the _Prophet_ detailing Potter's injury—he reads the bloody articles, all right?—and subsequent sabbatical from the DMLE. There's no reason for him to ask Potter about the details. Which is, of course, why he does anyway.

Potter doesn't look up, which is almost more upsetting than Draco asking the question in the first place. "I was injured in the field and put on sabbatical."

"They shelved you." Draco's mouth is going to get a very stern talking to later, that is for sure.

Potter shrugs.

"For how long?"

He shrugs again. "Robards said indefinitely. It depends on how quickly my leg heals, I guess."

"Well, of course. I doubt they'd want their star Auror exacerbating his injuries."

Potter laughs, though it sounds like it pains him. "I'm not their star anything, I'm afraid."

"Really. That's not how the _Prophet_ made things out to be."

"That's because the _Prophet_ is full of shit." Potter finally looks up, expression dark. "I'm surprised you even bother to read it."

"I like something to do when I'm having breakfast. The paper seems a logical choice."

"Of course."

They fall silent again, and Draco sips his tea idly, trying to watch Potter without being too obvious about it and likely failing. The man drinks his tea carefully, as if it might come out of the cup and bite him. Draco doesn't really know what to say. He slides a plate full of biscuits towards Potter's side of the classroom table. "Have a biscuit, Potter. A bit of chocolate will help after the boggart."

The side of his mouth quirks up. "You sound like Minerva."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

This startles a laugh from Potter, who takes a chocolate-coated biscuit from the plate and bites into it carefully. "Thank you," he says around a mouthful of crumbs. "All things considered, you're being rather… nice about everything."

"There's this amazing thing about time, Potter. It lets one change."

He snorts at that. "Still not sure that's a good thing."

"Not the way you're doing it." Potter glares at Draco, and he has to fight the urge to grin back. "Anyway, it's hardly the worst I've had to deal with since coming back from the Continent. There've been many angry wizards before you, and I expect there will be more after." When Potter opens his mouth to interrupt, Draco holds his hand up, stopping him. "And you do not need to apologise. I caught you at a … let's say vulnerable moment, and you reacted accordingly. We'll both kindly forget what we saw in this classroom today, and move on from it."

Potter nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. And you won't say anything about..."

"No, of course not. It may be hard to believe, but a Malfoy keeps his word. Now, if you'll excuse me"—he pushes himself back from the table—"I have some grading I need to get back to, and if I leave the potions sitting too long, they have a tendency to explode."

Potter looks aghast. "What do you have them brewing?"

"Pepper-Up. The steam can build up in the bottles if you don't properly prepare the Mandrake root. It's for the fourth years. We've started with healing potions."

"Ah." He fiddles with his cup, eyes the remaining biscuits. "I… Thank you. Again."

"Of course. Take care, Professor."

"Mal… Professor."

Draco walks from the classroom and lets the door shut behind him. He nearly reaches his chambers, only a handful of yards to blessed privacy, before his hands start shaking. The motion moves from the tips of his fingers to his arms, then his whole body. It's an uncontrollable trembling that quickly forces him to press his body against the cool stone wall, white-knuckled hands clenched and still vibrating.

Potter had nearly killed him. It's not the first time that exact scenario had presented itself in Draco's life, in this exact castle, but there was no Myrtle screaming for rescue this time, no Snape rushing in to cast a counter-curse. In the moment, and in the moments following, Draco had been able to repress the fear associated with his near miss with oblivion, but now, alone and away from Potter's wet, too-green eyes, he can't tell if he wants to break into hysterical laughter or hysterical tears. He's always been good at brazening things out, though, and it's held him in good stead with Potter. The tea had been calming as well, though as he fights for breath and hopes his knees won't give out on him, he wonders if he should have gone back to his rooms while shock was still keeping him relatively stable.

And Merlin, that doesn't even touch on the disgusting truth revealed by his boggart. He shivers when he remembers the warmth in its gaze, the way his father's cologne had smelled exactly right. That mix of musk and spice Draco was never able to pinpoint, but was distinctly Lucius Malfoy. His father kept his cologne in a small, silver bottle on his dresser, the top decorated with a filigree snake with flashing emerald eyes. Draco promised to be careful, to not damage it or even open it, his young voice filled with certainty and determination. He would be gentle with it, he _promised_ , but his father never let him handle it. It wasn't until his father had died—alone and atrophied away to skin and bone in Azkaban, where even Draco's mother didn't visit in those last, wasting months—that Draco held the vial, cradling it in his hands until it was warm and the snake nearly lifelike because of it.

He still didn't open it.

He left it at the Manor, one of the few possessions of his father's that he didn't sell outright. His mother didn't ask why, only set it on the desk in Draco's room, those green, serpentine eyes bright and cold.

His father has been dead for over a year and a half. He went to Azkaban because he was a Death Eater and Voldemort's right-hand man towards the end, though that seeming honor had been more torture than anything else. But Lucius Malfoy had killed people in Voldemort's name, had nearly killed Potter for that matter, and he'd been punished for it.

Draco only visited once. It had been achingly quiet in the cell. The prison itself was loud. Surrounded by the North Sea, battered by waves and wind, the rough-hewn building moaned constantly. There was always a draught, no matter where Draco went, and his warming charm seemed almost afraid to keep him anything more comfortable than slightly chilled. Lucius's cell, its bare iron bars and dark stone, hid every part of the man except for the vivid shock of his hair. Always light, always a shade brighter than blond, it had become bone-white. When he looked at Draco through that fall of hair like spider silk, Lucius's flat, grey eyes had struck Draco cold. Eyes, so like his own, sunken into a face Draco didn't recognise anymore. Filled with something too much like nothing at all, not quite dead but on its way there.

They hadn't spoken, and while Draco stayed calm and collected on the trip back to the Manor, he fell into quiet, body-shaking sobs after he reached the privacy of his room and cast a _Muffliato_ around his bed. He mourned for his father, for the man he'd been and the man he'd never be. And he mourned for himself, who would never know anything more than the twisted mess of his love for his father and the broken reflection of it, trapped in flat, slate-grey eyes.

And Potter had seen it all, for fuck's sake. Draco's bloody soul laid bare, and the man he was determined to hate had been present for it, though too distracted by his own grief and anger to say anything. Draco would certainly be doing his best to forget every blasted minute of that exchange, and he desperately hoped that Potter would do the same. Some part of him knew that the other man would, his inherent Gryffindor goodness overpowering his dislike of Draco.

But even that had seemed off in their exchange. Draco pushes himself away from the wall and stumbles to his rooms. His faded red and gold chair swallows his body, and he pulls his legs up into the seat, shoes still on, and presses his forehead into his knees.

Potter hadn't acted hateful over tea. Diminished and softened, a weapon blunted by cruel usage and lack of care, he had seemed… tired to Draco, exhausted in the same way his father had been that last time Draco had seen him. He shivers at the thought. There's something seriously wrong with the man, and dammit if Draco hasn't made up his mind sometime between leaving the DADA classroom and pressing his eyes into his kneecaps hard enough to make stars spark behind the lids to do something about it.

Guess he'll be helping Potter after all.

He silently hopes that Minerva won't come after him for meddling.

* * *

While he feels like the day has lasted nearly as long as the entire term, Draco is surprised to learn it isn't even past dinner. A small bell chimes near the door, an inscription appearing in a fine cursive hand announcing that dinner will be served in fifteen minutes. He groans and rises from his chair like a wraith, or at least feeling like one. He's worn out and thinking wistfully of moors and attractive men on horseback on their way to rescue him. But his stomach rumbles—he hadn't had any of the biscuits at tea, too certain that he'd be retching them up later—and he makes his way out of the safety of his rooms to the relative uncertainty of the Head Table.

Minerva is already seated, and he nods politely towards her but takes a seat further down the table, hoping to find some solitude during the meal. His cup fills with wine, a golden white that hints of summer and citrus when it slips over his tongue, and as he sets it back on the table, Hagrid's bulk envelops the chair next to him.

"Malfoy," he says with a bright grin. "Are you eating enough? You look gaunt."

"I promise you, I am eating plenty." He thinks of the hand pies and the small trays of delicate cakes that have started showing up in his rooms when he heads down for bed. He assumes that Dippy has something to do with it, which means he eats the damned things, even if it's just a bite to show his appreciation.

"Well, all right." Hagrid takes a sip from a heavy stoneware mug filled with what looks like a dark beer. "How're classes going?"

"Well, so far. There's been a handful of minor disasters, but no one's died yet."

"Not even with those fifth years?"

Draco can't stop the smile from slipping out. "Not even them, though they've made a concerted effort."

"Brilliant, brilliant." Distracted by motion to his left, Hagrid's eyes brighten and his smile grows, impossibly, bigger. "Harry!"

If Draco were drinking his wine, he'd choke on it. Potter sits on the other side of Hagrid, the man a massive, muscled wall between the two of them. Fighting for composure, he nods around Hagrid's bulk, acknowledging Potter but not saying anything.

"Hey, Hagrid." Potter's smile dims a little, his cheeks flushed, when he sees Draco. "Professor Malfoy."

"Professor Potter." Draco's wine is sweet and cold, a blessed distraction from the answering heat in his face. Merlin, he really hopes this will grow less awkward over time.

Dinner appears a few minutes later, a delicate white fish with a buttery sauce that almost melts on Draco's tongue. The wine is paired perfectly, and along with steamed asparagus and crisp, delicate parsnips and seasoned wild rice, Draco loses himself to the simple joy of a good meal.

Dessert is a creamy berry tart covered with a gold dust that tastes like sugar and sunshine, and when Draco cuts into the buttery crust, it sparks with small lights like stars. He grins, then takes a bite, enjoying the blend of sharp berries and smooth creme.

"I don't remember the food being this good when we were students," Potter says, leaning past a slightly dozing Hagrid.

Draco chews and swallows carefully, then responds, "The house-elves tend to be kinder to the professors than they are to the students. It's much easier for them to cook in bulk for the children and leave the fancier dishes for the adults."

"Well, I've no complaints about the change." Potter pushes his plate, littered with only crumbs and his fork, towards the edge of the table. A moment later, it disappears with a quiet pop. He sighs, then gives Draco a long considering look. "Thank you. Again."

"I thought we were forgetting about it, Potter."

"I don't think I can."

"Give it the old Gryffindor try," Draco says. "I'm sure you can manage."

"It's just…"

Draco looks at Hagrid, whose head is tipped back, his mouth hanging slightly open and rattling with quiet snores. No salvation there, unsurprisingly.

"I know you don't really care," Potter continues, either not sensing Draco's desire to flee this conversation as quickly as possible or choosing to ignore it. "And I appreciate that you're willing to pretend for my benefit." His mouth lifts into an approximation of a smile. "Or for your benefit, more likely."

"I remember you being at least marginally intelligent," Draco says, his voice thick with sarcasm, "but since this particular lesson doesn't appear to be sticking, I'll repeat myself: I am no longer a child, and even if I don't _like_ you all that much, it doesn't mean I'm a heartless bastard. I saw a fellow human being in need, and I assisted. Now, if you don't mind, let's stop all of this talk of… caring, please. It's terribly gauche for after-dinner conversation."

Potter flushes as he ducks his head, nodding with an uncharacteristic lack of grace. "Yeah, sorry. I just didn't… I wanted you to know it meant something, is all."

"Of course. Now, _please_ , don't mention it again. Have a good night."

"Good night."

As he walks from the Great Hall, he can't help but roll his eyes. 

Gryffindors. Honestly.

Still, he and Potter had had a relatively… congenial conversation about the food, before Potter had gone and ruined it all by talking about feelings. And whether Draco likes to admit it or not, that is progress of a kind.

Maybe helping Potter won't be that hard after all.


	5. Chapter 5

Pansy's letter arrives a week later, written on a sweet-smelling paper that feels more like fabric than parchment. The ink reminds him of lacquer. It's a dark blue that's nearly black, and as he unfolds the page, it glints in the light.

_Draco,_

_Thank you for finally writing. I expected to hear from you when you had your next crisis, and as I am rarely wrong, it seems that you're having one now. I will admit that it feels a bit too much like our fourth and fifth years, when you were obsessed with Harry Potter to the point of nausea, but since your affliction has been a nearly life-long one—_ he scoffs at this— _I will forgive you for staying true to form._

_As for what to do next, I suggest spending time with the man (I'm sure you'll be very disappointed to hear this) and try not to ~~shag~~ kill him in the process. Once you find out more about what, exactly, has led the Saviour of the Wizarding World to such a derelict state, you should be able to find a way to patch him up. I will be back in jolly old England in mid-November, and I shall make sure to visit Hogsmeade while I'm here. If you'd like me to bring Theo along for support, do let me know (he says 'hello, you ponce.' His words, not mine)._

_Send your mother my love, and try to take care of yourself while you chase after this particular Golden Snitch. I'm sure you'll have a grand time catching it._

_Love,_

_Pansy_

There's nearly a month until the wildly nonspecific date of "mid-November" and Draco tries not to be too put out by Pansy's lack of clarity. Instead, he writes a quick reply, telling Pansy to send him a Patronus once she's in the country so they can get their calendars in order. He also insists on telling Theo to _piss off, you tosser_ , and smiles when he sends the letter off with another of the school's owls.

Classes continue without much change of pace and, thankfully, little excitement. The fourth years are excelling at their healing potions—not a single Pepper-Up explosion in the bunch—and have moved onto Skele-Gro. NEWT practicums continue without any further cauldron meltings, too, though Robinson does manage to break one of the magical burners when his empty cauldron falls on top of it. The cauldron stand is buckled, squashed by the heavy lead, and there's nothing more that Draco can do other than Vanish the thing and send a requisition form to Hogsmeade.

He has Robinson in detention for a week after that, sorting the ingredients in the storage cupboards first alphabetically, then by uses. It's a tedious and contradictory cataloguing method, which means it's the perfect punishment for the young man. By the end of the week, he's swearing up and down the hallways that he'll never break another thing in potions ever again (Draco doubts this very much).

Dankworth is back in class, too, though he's been uncharacteristically cautious. Previously an enthusiastic and intuitive brewer, he's slower to trust his instincts and, therefore, not doing as well in his NEWT preparations. Draco keeps a watchful eye on the young man, pulling him aside after class one day.

Dankworth deflates in on himself, shoulders folding forward as he takes a seat on a stool. "I'm sorry, Professor. I know I'm not doing well."

"Huxley," Draco says, surprised at how gentle his voice sounds when he says the young man's name. "We both know that what happened earlier this term was a near miss, but I don't want you to be afraid of potions because of it."

"But"—Dankworth runs his fingers through his dark blond hair, leaving it disheveled—"I don't know what I did wrong. I've been trying to figure it out, and I can't remember if I added something or stirred with the wrong wand, or if the burner was too hot…"

"Can I tell you something?" Draco asks, though he doesn't wait for an answer. "When I was studying for my mastery, I was brewing a Wiggenweld potion. Simple enough for a first year, which is when I learned it. And somewhere between the second time it went from red to yellow, something went very, very wrong with it. I still don't fully understand what happened, but it overflowed the cauldron and burnt through my protective spells. Left a rather impressive hole in the laboratory floor as well." He smiles, remembering his mentor's mouth hanging open, eyes wide, aghast. "And even though I tried to figure out what I did wrong, whether it was the ingredients or the tools or the potion itself, I was never able to. Sometimes, potions—like other magics—just go sideways. The best thing we can do is learn from the mistake and move forward."

Dankworth nods, eyes still downcast.

Draco sighs, then looks at Dankworth's still simmering cauldron. "What are you working on right now?"

"Wit-Sharpening potion," he says. "I'm nearly finished."

"Wonderful." Draco leans forward to smell the potion. It's heavy with ginger, though still a dull purple, which means that Dankworth has yet to add the final batch of root. Draco looks around the workbench and notes a pile of it, carefully chopped and waiting nearby. "What do you think will happen if you add too much ginger?"

Dankworth frowns. "I'm not sure. The color would be off, I imagine. Ginger likes to darken things, like most rhizomes."

"And if you stir it clockwise, instead of counter?"

"It wouldn't thicken properly? Or maybe it would thicken too much…" Dankworth bites his lip. "It would depend on how many times I stirred the potion, I think."

"And if I sneezed or a bit of dust from the classroom got into the cauldron? What if Peeves showed up right now and upset the entire thing over the table? Hm?"

"I…" Dankworth flushes. "I don't know, Professor."

"Neither do I," he says with a gentle smile. "Though maybe not for the last one. I imagine it would be a giant, but harmless, mess. My point, young man, is that any number of disasters could befall your potion, large or small. But if you trust yourself and your skill"—Draco grabs a handful of the chopped ginger, feels the weight of it, and drops half into the cauldron. It turns a dark orange and fills the room with the sharp tang of ginger and citrus—"then everything will work out fine in the end."

Dankworth stares at the bubbling potion, brow slightly furrowed as he takes in Draco's words. After a long moment, he looks up, eyes bright. "Thank you, Professor."

"If you have any questions or concerns, you can come to me with them." Draco sets the rest of the ginger on the worktop. "But don't be afraid about the things you can't control. There's very little in life that we can."

The young man nods, then sets to bottling the Wit-Sharpening potion and leaving it with Draco. The glass is warm when Draco picks it up, and after he sets it in the cupboard he keeps specifically for student potions, he looks at it a long time, wondering if he's stirred counterclockwise when he should have gone the other way entirely.

With October creeping in, the air takes on a sharp bite. It niggles at the back of Draco's neck while he watches the Slytherin Quidditch team train. They're still looking good, though Parslow continues to be weak on his left side. Hawkins is doing his best to coach him through it, but the third year seems intent on not understanding. Draco's skin itches with the desire to step in, but he manages to sit back and watch, breathing a sigh of relief when Parslow finally blocks a shot on goal from the left. There's still a month before the first match with Gryffindor, but old rivalries die hard, and Draco is perhaps a bit more invested in the win this year than previously.

He's given up pretending that it doesn't have anything to do with Potter, because it honestly does. His fixation firmly planted and growing roots, Draco follows Pansy's advice as best he can, but from a distance. Again, he's not actually lurking, but it feels a bit like he is. Potter catches on, and rather than being offended or violent, he stays quiet, even when he finds Draco standing in the hallway outside of the teacher's lounge, another brown paper-wrapped parcel forced on him by the house-elves clasped in his only slightly sweaty hands.

"Why are you standing in the hallway?" Potter asks, blunt like a blow to the head.

Draco holds up the parcel like a shield. "Is that any way to talk to someone bearing gifts?"

"Are you going to share?"

"Not with that attitude. Make way, Potter."

Minerva is sitting inside, feet up on a low stool. A cup of tea rests on a small table next to her, and she's reading the _Prophet._ When Draco walks into the room, she peers over the top of the page, eyebrow raised for a brief second before she disappears back behind the newsprint.

Coward.

"What'd they give you this time?" Potter asks, following after Draco like a dog getting ready to beg for scraps. He sets the bundle down on the same table he, Potter, and Longbottom sat at before, then pulls out a chair. Potter falls into one next to him, wincing as his leg pulls.

Draco tries to ignore the flash of pain. "No idea. Probably something with too much butter and not enough veg."

"Sounds brilliant." Potter nods towards the parcel. "Go ahead, open it up."

Draco is, shockingly, incorrect. Rather than the greasy luxury he expected, there are smaller packages inside, each one wrapped in a different color wax paper. He and Potter exchange slightly frightened expressions—they've both dealt with overzealous house-elves in the past—and start divvying up the various parcels. Draco ends up with three small bundles wrapped in green, pink polka-dot, and nearly white paper respectively, while Potter takes the remaining two—the largest of the batch wrapped in a dark blue and a medium-sized one wrapped in gold and green.

"What do you think they're on about with this?" Potter asks as his fingers carefully pull back the edges.

Turns out that Dippy is feeling like Japanese. Draco has a series of _onigiri_ , each one perfectly triangular and wrapped with a neat bit of seaweed. Potter's blessed with an assortment of _korokke_ , small breaded and fried meat and potato patties. They're various shades of brown, which leads Draco to believe they've got different seasonings, and judging by the smell emanating from Potter's side of the table, he's right. The final package is white rice with steamed vegetables, all dusted with a _furikake_ of black and pink stars.

"Can you teach me how to get the elves to like me this much?" Potter asks, eyebrows lost in his hairline. "This is… impressive."

"I don't know what I did," Draco answers honestly. "I just kept asking for food."

"Did you bribe them?"

"Of course not, Potter. I don't even know how one would bribe a house-elf. Now, pass me some of those."

They trade their morsels, splitting the extra _onigiri_ between them. It's sour plum, so Draco's not entirely upset to not get the whole thing. They transfigure chopsticks from the greaseproof paper and eat quietly together. Draco finds the experience surprisingly pleasant. If someone had told his twelve-year-old self that he'd share a cordial meal with Harry Potter one day, he'd have laughed himself into unconsciousness. As it is, though, he finds himself smiling, if only to himself, when they both lean back in their chairs, bellies full and the table before them bare.

Minerva rustles her paper, breaking the quiet contentment that Draco's feeling.

"Headmistress," he says, tilting his head back to look at her, slightly upside-down. "How are you doing this evening?"

"Fine, Draco," she says, shaking her paper again before turning the page. "Plenty of interesting things to talk about, don't you think?"

"Perhaps. The Gryffindor-Slytherin match is coming up soon. How badly will your House lose, do you think? By my guess, the difference should be at least two hundred points."

She throws her paper down, face stormy. "I beg your pardon. We both know that Keeper of yours is a weakness."

"And we both know that McCafferty couldn't find the Snitch if it were in his hand, bright pink, and the size of a dragon."

"Now, see here"—the paper falls to the floor as Minerva stands—"McCafferty is green, yes, but he's more than a match for Hawkins, no matter the age difference. And Griffiths and Hughes are every bit as good as any of the Slytherin Chasers." She smirks, and Draco has to fight back a laugh. "I'd be willing to put money down on Gryffindor beating Slytherin by a hundred points." She pushes her glasses up her nose. "Or more."

"Ha! I'll take that. Ten galleons?"

"You're on, Malfoy." Her grin is all lion as she approaches to shake his hand, sealing the bet.

"Are we supposed to gamble on the students?" Potter asks, and both Draco and Minerva jump. "That seems like something that would be frowned upon."

"You'd be surprised, Mr Potter. If you knew how much money I lost to Albus while you were the Gryffindor Seeker..."

Harry, eyes wide, glances to Draco as if he'll offer support. Instead, Draco shrugs and starts looking for parchment and quill to write down their bet. "Realise that means she was betting on me."

"Well." Harry bites his lip, and Draco doesn't get distracted from his search by the press of white against soft flesh. "In that case, I think Malfoy might have a point. The Slytherin team is looking quite good this year."

"Harry!" Minerva presses a hand to her chest, eyes flashing with amusement and surprise. "Does House loyalty mean nothing to you?"

"Not if there's money on it. I was a hatstall, after all."

"Are you interested in putting a bit of your skin in the game, Potter?" Draco asks, holding up the parchment he found in a desk drawer. "Bet is ten Galleons that Slytherin will lose by at least a hundred points."

"I'm in, and against. Slytherin's going to win, or at least keep it close enough that the Snitch won't make the point differential that wide."

Draco grins, and when Potter smiles back at him, green eyes bright in a way they haven't been in all the time between when he walked into the Great Hall and now, it makes everything else around them fade away.

Time distills around Draco, collecting, coalescing, concentrating into a pure, unadulterated instant. He's trapped, locked within the humour in Potter's eyes, the small lines that form in the corners of his eyes and around his mouth. The crackling fire refracts in Potter's glasses, scattering light like a dusting of stars across his eyes. It makes Potter's darker skin glow. Draco drinks it in. Something in his chest squeezes, a half-forgotten muscle clenching from disuse and atrophy.

He feels like he's been looking at Potter for a too-long moment, but when Minerva's brogue breaks through the fog surrounding Draco's mind, he realises it's only been a second, a heartbeat.

"I will be happy to take money from both of you," Minerva continues, shaking a finger at Potter. "And you, young man, should consider lending your own talents to your House, if that's how you really feel about it."

"I can't coach," Potter says, sounding apologetic. He rubs his leg with a wince. "Bit hard to sit a broom with a bad leg, yeah?"

"Bit hard to watch a Gryffindor cheer for Slytherin."

"Let's not get hyperbolic, Headmistress."

Draco lets the two of them devolve into an argument, trying to catch his breath and failing spectacularly.

* * *

As Hallowe'en approaches, Hogwarts slowly takes on a festive feel. Classes continue, of course, so days are spent trying to prevent catastrophes and evenings are spent grading them. But the ghosts get into the season, startling first years as they wander between classes, and the cobwebs in the corners shift from indistinct masses to delicate patterns of branching lines and skulls. The candles in the Great Hall turn from white to black, and the leaves on the trees shift from Slytherin green to Gryffindor red and gold.

Hagrid and Longbottom are engaged in their yearly pumpkin growing contest. It started when Longbottom first joined the staff, completely by accident. He planted a simple garden, nestling green peas and beans next to carrots and onions, with a small bed of squash and pumpkins. When Hagrid came tromping through the lawns towards the greenhouses and caught sight of the young, curling vines, he'd thundered his disapproval, declared war, and marched off to his hut.

When Longbottom explained it to Draco, Draco lying in rumpled sheets as Longbottom dressed, he looked so confused about the feud that Draco had laughed before kissing the befuddlement from his mouth.

It's tradition now. Every year, Longbottom and Hagrid set the terms of the contest, though they don't change: whomever grows the largest pumpkin without the use of magic is the winner. Winner of what, Draco doesn't fully understand, but since it's more fun watching them go about trying to sabotage each other's gardens without letting the other mess with theirs, he doesn't really care.

Longbottom is out to an early lead this year. His biggest pumpkin is already large enough that Draco could only just wrap his arms around it. Hagrid, furious about it, has been trying every fertiliser he can think of. As Draco walks towards Hagrid's hut, he sees the man flitting between his smaller specimens, crooning to them in a voice still too indistinct to make out the words, though the tone is clear. He's probably calling them his precious babies and telling them that their daddy loves them very much, and won't they grow for him like good children, and won't they love the new treat he has in store for them.

Draco fights back a fond grin. Honestly, of all the things that have surprised him since returning to Hogwarts, his friendship with Hagrid is near the top. As a child, he feared the man. He was huge and shaggy, his voice loud enough to hurt Draco's ears, and he'd had such a clear preference for Potter that Draco decided to hate him on sight. Of course, the whole nonsense with the Hippogriff his third year only made it worse. Draco didn't want the man to like him, after all. What was the point of making an effort?

He did his best to change that during his first year teaching at Hogwarts. As an adult, and as the newest member of the teaching staff, Draco felt that having any outright animosity between him and another professor was likely a bad way to start. They were professionals, after all. Equals. Two people who, though they might have a tumultuous past between them, could move on from that to some sort of equanimity. He introduced himself again, held his hand out for Hagrid's frankly too large one, and was swallowed up in a dirty, dusty brown greatcoat instead.

Draco was quickly reminded that Hagrid had a penchant for unruly creatures, Slytherins included. He pulled Draco under his wing like a human-shaped blast-ended skrewt, convinced that if he only fed Draco enough rock cake and treacle fudge, he'd come around.

The worst thing is that Hagrid was right. Draco hadn't realised it at the time, but the distance—from the castle, from the students, from the other teachers—had given him space to breathe. Hagrid's little hut became a refuge of sorts, one that smelled like wet dog and green wood and was nothing he ever expected. And Hagrid, who'd once been so big and terrifying, became big and reassuring instead.

Still, the man does do rather idiotic things like hatching a nest of Hydras or filling a lake with kelpies, but Draco can't help his smile as he walks to the edge of Hagrid's garden, smoke curling invitingly from the hut's chimney, and catches the tail end of Hagrid's speech.

"That's right, darlings. Grow nice and big for me, and there'll be more where that came from, I promise." He strokes his large hand over the bumpy orange skin of one pumpkin, then presses a shaggy kiss to the surface of another. "That's my dears."

"Hagrid."

The man jumps, nearly crushing the pumpkin under his hand. Eyes wide, he coos at it in apology before standing and shaking a finger at Draco. "Don't be startling me like that, Malfoy. I'll not have you upsetting the pumpkins, you hear me?"

"As if I'd want to do anything to put your gourds at risk."

"You'd best not." His expressive face turns serious, slightly threatening. Draco's reminded of being small and insignificant next to Hagrid's looming bulk, but when the man puts his hands on his hips, Draco has to fight back a grin. "Longbottom is not going to have it again this year, not if I can help it."

"Shall we discuss strategies over tea?" Draco tilts his head towards the hut. "It is, after all, why I'm here."

"Oh, Merlin, did I lose track of the time again?" Hagrid carefully extricates himself from the garden, murmuring quiet reassurances to the unaffected pumpkins, and gestures for Draco to follow him into the hut. "Blasted Neville is getting to me, I tell you."

Draco makes some consoling noises, then settles into one of the overstuffed chairs while Hagrid gathers his kettle and tea and rock cakes.

"Been trying seaweed this year," Hagrid continues, talking more to himself than Draco, who simply enjoys the way Hagrid's voice rumbles through him. "Not entirely sure it's doing the trick, though. Might go back to dragon dung, if I can get my hands on some." He passes Draco a cup of tea, then falls into another chair before pouring a finger of Firewhiskey into his cup. "What've you been up to, then? Staying out of trouble?"

"As far as I'm aware," he says before taking a sip. It's piping hot, and he burns the tip of his tongue. "I've managed to make a house-elf fall in love with me, which has been wonderful for my taste buds, not so much for my waistline."

Hagrid grins. "Dippy, yeah? She's a sweet thing, she is. Has a soft spot for the down-and-out."

"As if I'm down-and-out."

"She seems to think you are."

Draco smirks. "Well, if she keeps plying me with food, I'll have to reconsider whether I want the title or not. For now, it's lovely. How're the kelpies?"

Hagrid sits forward excitedly, the liquor making his eyes a bit unfocused but no less bright. "Very good, actually. Had a student ride one yesterday. It was brilliant."

"Isn't that how they drown their victims?"

"Oh, he was fine. We had a rope around his waist, worked a treat."

"Congratulations on not killing anyone. You should be proud."

Judging by his grin, Hagrid is.

"Anything else you have to tell me, hm?" Hagrid asks, eyebrows raised without any subtlety at all. "Nothing new happening between you and any of the other professors?"

"Well"—Draco draws the word out, watching Hagrid lean forward with anticipation—"Minerva and I have started betting on the Quidditch matches already."

"Oh, not that rot. You're a referee, for Godric's sake."

"I never put money on the games I'm officiating." Draco tilts his nose up, aiming for affronted dignity and landing somewhere closer to amusement.

Hagrid leans back into his chair, frowning. "I meant with _Harry_."

"He's settling in, it seems."

"Aye, that's one word for it." Hagrid looks at Draco for a long moment over the rim of his tea cup. It looks far too delicate in his hands. "You're not meddling, are you?"

He doesn't know where he's gotten this reputation, but Hagrid's words draw Draco's mouth into a frown. "No. I'm not."

"Because Harry's had a rough time of it, though you'd never hear a word of complaint from him. Very private, Harry. Doesn't like to air his dirty laundry, if you know what I mean."

"I'm sure you'll tell me if I don't."

"You see," Hagrid continues, uninterrupted, the Firewhiskey loosening his tongue (not that it needs it), "that Robards had expectations of our boy, after the war. Thought he'd be a good soldier, that he'd go after the people he was pointed at like a hunting dog." Hagrid grins, and there's a feral edge to it that makes the hairs on Draco's arms stand up. "But that's not our Harry. He's never been anything but himself, and after everything, he wasn't going to go after people without thinking. Learned too much, too fast, that young man."

"We all did." Draco takes a sip, fighting for composure. "Wasn't much of a choice in that."

"No, and I'll always regret that you kids were thrown into our war, on both sides, without any choice in the matter. Terrible thing, war. And people did awful things on both sides"—he gives Draco a pointed look—"and while some of you moved past it, others didn't. Not to say that Harry hasn't moved past it, or that you haven't, but only that sometimes it's easier to forgive than to forget, and some of the things that happened were unforgivable."

He remembers Dumbledore standing on a tower, telling Draco he wasn't a killer, and then his lifeless body falling over the battlements, and Draco knows exactly what Hagrid is talking about.

The other man continues, seemingly unaware of the grief and anger twisting through Draco's gut. "But Robards, he didn't see that. Didn't realise that Harry was done blindly following orders. And it created… problems. Problems that poor Harry doesn't need or deserve. That poor boy…" Hagrid's voice trails off. "He deserves so much more than that."

"Is that why he's here?" Draco asks through the thickness in his throat. "Because Robards can't get Potter to fall into line?"

"I never said…" Hagrid flushes, realising his mistake. "Don't say nothing to Harry about it, but it's part of it, yes. He hurt his leg, too. You've seen him limping around the Great Hall, I'm sure."

Draco nods. "It seems like it gets worse when he's paying attention to it. He only favors it when it comes up, or if he's upset. There are times where you can hardly tell."

"I don't know about that," Hagrid says, sounding unconvinced, "but he is a bit... "

"Muted."

"That's a word for it. He's got a lot on his mind, he does."

"I wonder what it all means." Draco thinks about the Boggart, about its haggard appearance and the terror in Potter's eyes, if it's tied up in the expectations and the scars and remnants of war. "Maybe he should talk to Pomfrey."

"You said you weren't meddling."

"I'm _not_." Draco hides in his tea cup. "I'm just wondering."

Hagrid makes a noncommittal noise. "Wondering about Harry Potter."

"Yes."

"And not because you're meddling."

"Yes."

Hagrid laughs and takes a healthy drink of his spiked tea. "Pull the other one, Malfoy."

"I will have you know—"

He's interrupted by a banging on the front door, and then it bursts open. Potter almost falls through, his eyes bright and excited as he grins at Hagrid.

"I figured it out, Hagrid! How Neville's got his pumpkins so big already, even without magic. It's bloody devious, I have to tell you…"

His excited voice trails off, expression going from elated and victorious to shuttered in the second it takes him to process that Draco is curled into a soft chair, legs crossed, cup of tea cradled between his hands.

"Malfoy. I…" He looks at Hagrid and his own tea cup, a shadow crossing his face. "Am I interrupting?"

Draco opens his mouth to say something, but Hagrid beats him to the punch.

"No, Harry!" He reaches for the still steaming tea pot. "We're just having a spot of tea. Sit, sit. Come join us, and tell me what that rotter is up to."

Some of the emotion bleeds back into Potter's face as he shuts the door behind him. "No whiskey for me, Hagrid," he says before sitting at the small kitchen table. His chair is one of the least comfortable in the hut, and Draco feels an unexpected twinge of embarrassment, of not belonging here anymore, like he should give up his chair for Potter. But the opportunity to offer it has already passed, Potter drinking tea and slowly explaining to Hagrid the strict fertilisation regimen that Longbottom is following to get his pumpkins to grow. Hagrid is looking around frantically for a quill and parchment, telling Potter to slow down, slow down, and Draco is surprised at how quickly his unease fades and the tension in his body leaks out.

"That bastard," Hagrid says, staring at Potter with wide eyes. "That bloody genius bastard." He turns to Draco, eyes full of fire. "Dragon dung, Malfoy. I said it was dragon dung, didn't I?"

"I seem to remember that coming up in conversation, yes."

Hagrid throws his hand in the air in triumph. "I'll have him now! Just you wait."

His tea cup empty, and that sense of awkward alienation growing as his hands have nothing to do, Draco sets the cup down on the side table and stands.

"While I'd love to continue this conversation about literal shit," he says, smiling to soften the sarcasm, "I'm going to head back up to the castle. Thank you for the tea, Hagrid. I'll see you again for it in a few weeks?"

"You don't have to leave already, do you?" Hagrid asks. He sounds genuinely disappointed. "Harry just got here."

Draco looks at Potter, whose expression is one of poorly masked relief. But there's wary gratitude in his eyes, too, which is what finally pushes Draco to leave. Hagrid's hut isn't only Draco's refuge, and sometimes, one needs to be alone in a place of solace and comfort, his former enemy not sitting across from him like he belongs.

"Thank you, Hagrid, but I'll leave you two to catch up." He lets a genuine smile cross his face. "Try not to drown any students."

"I have a rope!" he says with a laugh. "Take care, Malfoy."

Draco doesn't head directly back to the castle, taking a circuitous route to the entrance near the greenhouses, eyeing Longbottom's pumpkins with respect and a bit of humor. If Longbottom is up to his usual nonsense, he's told Potter something close enough to the truth of what he's doing to avoid suspicion, but not enough to give Hagrid a leg up. This isn't the first time the shaggy idiot's tried subterfuge without any luck. Draco does find it amusing that he'd set Potter to the task, and that the man had seemed to be having fun with it.

Fun and Potter don't seem to go hand-in-hand, lately. Draco remembers him laughing at some point since the start of term, but as he struggles to remember when it was, he stills, coming to a stop in the shadow of Hogwarts, the October wind biting through him.

Draco thinks about Hagrid's revelations about Potter, the way the man's eyes had shuttered when they saw Draco, the gratitude when he'd left. They've reached a kind of détente, but it's a tentative one. Draco isn't sure if he wants to try to improve it, or let the awkward distance stay. It's new territory for him, this almost-middle-ground he's reached with Potter. It leaves Draco off-center, makes him wonder at possibilities he hasn't considered in years, not since he met a dark-haired boy with startling green eyes in Madam Malkin's at eleven.

He goes inside, swallowed by the castle, tries not to obsess, and fails.

* * *

The Hallowe'en Feast is spectacular. Somehow, Hagrid and Longbottom have managed to tie, Hagrid's pumpkin having a last-minute growth spurt that shouldn't be nearly as exciting as it is. Longbottom doesn't seem to care in the least, but Hagrid's a mix of proud and annoyed that turns his expression into one that reads like he has to shit but can't excuse himself to do it.

Draco ladles punch from one of the hollowed-out pumpkins and takes in the Great Hall. Minerva's outdone herself this year. The bats from his childhood are nowhere to be seen—the creatures triggered too many panic attacks in the students after the War—and have been replaced with leaves in red, gold, and brown that swirl into twisted columns before falling to the floor and fading away. While they're present, though, they crunch under his feet, leaving a sweet, burnt-wood, earthy smell behind. There are carved pumpkins on the tables in place of candelabras, and the reflected orange light gives everything a soft feel, like sunset or twilight, the day fading into early evening. Cobwebs glitter where they hang from the ceiling, dew glistening on the strands like diamonds that catch and scatter the candlelight like stars.

The main course is hearty and extravagant, but it wouldn't be the Hallowe'en Feast if there weren't an overabundance of sweets covering every available space of tabletop. There are toffee apples that are polished to such a high sheen that Draco can see himself reflected in them. When he takes a bite from one, the outer surface crunches, then collapses under his teeth, and hundreds of tiny sweets spill from the inside. Cauldron cakes, their flames a kaleidoscope of colors, are spread around the table, surrounded on all sides by tiny pumpkins that cackle when they're cut into, their interiors filled with a buttercream frosting with tiny bites of salted caramel mixed in. There are the usual goblets of sweets, but they're coordinated with the House colors. Even the professor's goblets match, Draco's one of the only ones filled with green and silver. There's an overabundance of red and gold, but he pretends it's to match the leaves rather than all of the Gryffindors he's managed to ensconce himself with. Not for the first time, he thinks what his younger self would say to see him here now.

Adding to the sense of disbelief, Draco keeps catching Potter staring at him. The few times he's caught those green eyes latched onto his face, there hasn't been any animosity, just a quiet confusion, like Draco's a puzzle that Potter would desperately like to solve. The sensation shouldn't be as erotic as it is, especially since Potter glances away as soon as he realises that Draco's looking back, but Draco is very happy to have the table to hide his physical response to Potter's eyes on him. He's not sure what it says about him that having Potter's concentrated attention, even in flashes, is enough to make him half-hard, but Draco will consider that later, in the privacy of his chambers, with a heavy tumbler of scotch to drown out the louder voices in his mind.

He's caught Minerva and Hagrid staring at them, too, though their attention draws a decidedly less confusing emotion from him. He's not meddling, honestly, and as he stays firmly seated, watching the students fill up on too much sugar, he continues to promise himself that he won't.

"Malfoy."

Fucking Gryffindors.

"Professor Potter." He turns as Potter draws back the empty chair next to Draco and sits. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Quidditch match is next weekend," Potter says. He's looking forward, not looking at Draco at all. But his cheeks appear to have a tint of red to them, one not from the warmth of the room or the light of the pumpkins. "How's the team looking?"

"Which one?"

"Slytherin, of course. I already know how Gryffindor is doing."

"I thought you weren't going to coach."

Potter laughs. "I'm not. But the stands are empty while they're practicing, and there aren't any rules about watching. Everyone assumes I'm there in support of the team."

"Rather than scouting out your competition."

The wicked glint of Potter's teeth makes Draco shiver. "Exactly."

"How did you manage to get sorted into Gryffindor?" Draco is genuinely puzzled. "That's one of the most Slytherin things I've heard anyone say."

"I asked," he says with a shrug, as if that's a normal thing to do. "Turned out for the best, I think."

Draco wonders if that's the case, if things might not have turned out completely differently if he and Potter had been in the same House, had grown up at each other's sides instead of each other's throats, if they had been friends instead of enemies.

But those are thoughts he doesn't let himself have anymore, and he brushes them aside.

"Parslow, the Keeper, is still a problem," Draco finally says, bringing the conversation back to safer topics. "But he's getting better. If the rest of the team can keep the pressure up on the Gryffindor Chasers, Slytherin should be fine."

"That Nautica is terrifying. I've never seen a human being so much like a Bludger in real life."

"She's a sweet girl off the pitch," Draco says, feeling a low coil of protective concern twist within him.

Potter's grin widens, settling some of Draco's unease. "I know. That's what makes her so bloody brilliant. Her opponents underestimate her, and then she's right there, knocking them senseless."

As Potter continues talking about the Slytherin and Gryffindor teams, getting lost in strategy and the potential vulnerabilities of both teams, Draco marvels at the change in the man. Unfocused, lost as he is in Quaffles and Keepers, it's like when Potter forgets that he's injured. Like his limp, his omnipresent darkness disappears, replaced by something approaching normalcy. It's not perfect. There's still a shadow cast across him, a sweeping expanse of filtered gloom that prevents Potter from truly shining, a sun hidden by clouds. But they're breaking, letting thin beams of light through to dance across the surface of water, sparkling and brilliant, and Draco can't look away.

"What do you think, Malfoy?" Potter asks, and Draco has no idea how he should respond.

"I…" He trails off, and the longer it takes for him to answer, the more closed off Potter's expression becomes, clouds rolling back in. "I think it should be an interesting match."

"I was asking about the food." Potter turns away from Draco and looks out over the gathered students. Draco knows he's made a misstep, but he doesn't know where to put his feet anymore, the ground beneath him uncertain and shifting with every breath.

"Come with me." He blurts the words out and immediately wishes he could pull them back in, gather them like golden leaves and whirl them away.

Potter glances back at Draco, puzzled. "To what?"

"The match. It's next weekend." As if Potter hadn't already told him the date when he sat down.

"What are you trying to do?"

 _I don't know_ rests on the tip of Draco's tongue, but he swallows it down. "Minerva only talks shit during games. It would be nice to talk strategy with someone for a change."

Potter's face is still clouded, but his frown eases. "Yeah, all right."

"All right," Draco parrots back. He reaches blindly for a cup, hopes it isn't full of sweets, and takes a drink. It is, thankfully, alcoholic. "I will see you then."

"You'll see me before then." Potter's mouth considers smiling, and Draco takes another sip, hoping the man's lips will make up their mind.

"And I will see you there as well. I don't remember you being so pedantic."

"Blame Hermione," Potter says before turning back to the Great Hall, a soft smile finally breaking through. "I spend too much time with her, I think."

The Feast doesn't continue much longer after that. The students are bustled off to their beds by Prefects. The mess on the tables vanishes as house-elves start tidying. Professors yawn and wish each other goodnight before leaving for their own chambers. But Potter lingers, his wary attention still turned to Draco, even after having spent the last thirty minutes talking together. Draco can't help but feel his own desperate fascination grow, fed like a flame by Potter's regard.

It feels wrong, though, to be so caught by Potter, to be the object of his focus. It feels undeserved, but not in the sense that Draco is beyond suspicion or concern. Instead, it's like drawing Potter's notice is something to be envied, a regard that carries prestige and honor with it. Potter doesn't invest time or energy in those who shouldn't be invested in, but if Draco knows anything about himself, it's that he's best forgotten.

Potter is good and kind, even when in the depths of whatever malaise has struck him down. But Draco knows that, in his core, in the hidden parts of himself that he can't bear to examine except on the edge of sleep, safely surrounded by the darkness of his bed hangings and the inside of his eyelids, he isn't.

Not really.


	6. Chapter 6

Next Saturday blows in with a ferocity that has everyone in the Quidditch stands smothered in scarves, heavy jackets, and warming charms. Most of the student body is only eyes, peering out from wind-bitten faces surrounded by color-coordinated wool. The weather is brutal, and Draco thought that Madam Hooch would have canceled the match, but she’s claiming the weather will blow over within the first hour.

Draco isn't so certain she's right. The clouds, a thick and ominous shade of grey, roll across the sky with the thoroughness of an invading army. He can smell rain, that soft hint of moisture that clings to the insides of his nostrils and promises soaking wet hair and clothes in the near future. He hopes his _Protego_ is up to the challenge because he's wearing his favourite Slytherin House scarf—a lovely silk-wool blend that shimmers even in the dim sunlight—and he'll be damned if it shrinks from the wet.

He's saved a seat for Potter because he's polite, not because he expects the man to actually join him for the match. There's a teacher's section, of course, and while it does soften some of the inter-House rivalry—Minerva did arrive wearing a garishly red robe trimmed in gold, her pointed hat dyed to match—there's still plenty of reasons for Harry Potter to not sit next to Draco Malfoy.

Which is, of course, why he falls onto the bench next to Draco, holding out a large metal tube with a grin, as if this is all normal and not some strange fever dream born of Draco's teenaged desperate, secret longings.

"I brought tea," Potter says, still waiting for Draco to take the odd thing from him. When he doesn't, Potter frowns and pulls it closer to himself. "If you don't want any…"

"What is that?" Draco asks, watching as Potter starts twisting at the top of the tube. It slowly unscrews, revealing that the part Potter is removing is a cup that also covers some type of stopper.

"A Thurr-Mos," Potter says, holding the lid-cup out to Draco. He takes it, uncertain what else to do, and watches as Potter pulls the stopper up and steam curls from around its edges. "It keeps things warm."

"Like tea."

"Like tea." Potter smiles a bit. "And whiskey."

"Professor," Draco says, mimicking outrage while holding the cup out to Potter. "If you keep this up, I'll have to take points."

He grins as he fills the cup. "I'm sure Minerva will find a way to give them back. Go on, drink up. I'm freezing."

Draco takes a sip, surprised at how quickly the warmth suffuses his body. When Potter reaches for the cup, their fingers brushing before he takes it and drinks, Draco blames the heat rushing through him on the whiskey instead of the truth.

His attention is drawn away when the announcer's voice comes booming across the pitch.

"Welcome to the first match of the Inter-House Quidditch Cup! This is your announcer, Lee Jordan—" Potter jumps a little at the name—"ready to cheer on Gryf— _the students_ of Hogwarts this year. Today, we've got old rivals, Gryffindor and Slytherin, facing off. The Slytherin team, captained by seventh year Seeker Lyndall Hawkins…"

Potter places his hand on Draco's sleeve. "What in the world is Lee doing commentating at a Hogwarts match? I thought he was with the British-Irish League."

"He is." Draco has to lean in, the crowd roaring as Jordan runs through both team's lineups. "If there isn't a conflict, though, he comes back for our games."

"Wanting to relive the glory days?"

"He claims it's to bother Minerva." Draco bites back a smile when Potter laughs. "But I think he enjoys not having to follow the rules while he's here."

Potter nods, his attention immediately refocusing on the field as the players jump onto their brooms and rise from the pitch. "Match is starting."

The Quaffle launches into the air, bright red leather easily visible even in the prestorm haze. Trudy Wright, one of the Gryffindor Chasers, comes up with it and zips towards Parslow, who's hovering in front of the central goal.

"Don't go for the left," Draco whispers to himself.

But when Wright does just that, Parslow bats the Quaffle away with a grin. Selwyn comes up with it, and the Slytherin Chasers dart back towards the Gryffindor goal with a series of precisely executed passes that has the green-and-silver scarves in the stands cheering.

"And that's ten points for Slytherin!" Jordan says with feigned excitement that's a testament to his professionalism, as it's nearly indistinguishable from the real thing. "The Quaffle goes back to Whitney 'Steady' Steadman, and she's thrown it back into play, recovered by Hughes. She passes to Griffiths, who passes to Wright, but oh! That's a hell of a hit—sorry, Headmistress, language—from 'Naughty' Routledge, aiming that Bludger like the pro she is. Slytherin has come up with the Quaffle again, and they're heading back to the Gryffindor goalposts. No idea where their Beaters are hiding, but the Slytherins are doing a great job of keeping the pressure off of their teammates."

Draco and Potter don't speak as they watch the match. The steel cup passes between the two of them, warm from the tea and their hands. Slytherin gains an early lead, and while the Chasers seem to have things in hand, there's always the question of the Seekers and the Snitch.

Hawkins has been circling the pitch since the beginning of the game, his body bent close to his broom as his eyes scan the field for flashing gold. Draco remembers the breathless waiting, the hyperfocus of his mind, watching for that elusive golden orb. He wonders if Potter has similar memories, but Draco's unwilling to take his eyes from the field to see Potter's expression.

A moment later, there are strong fingers wrapped around his forearm. "Malfoy, I think McCafferty's seen it."

Draco turns his head towards the Gryffindor Seeker, his body suddenly drenched in cold sweat. Slytherin is up, which means that even if McCafferty comes up with the Snitch, he'll win the bet with Minerva, but he also wants his House to get the Cup, as immature a desire as it is. When he sees McCafferty, though, he knows Potter's right.

"Merlin. Where is it?"

"I'm looking." Potter's fingers stay on Draco's arm as he scans the field, but they tighten a moment later. "There. Look."

He points, and Draco follows the line of his finger before making out a quick flash of light. Hovering on the other side of the pitch, right near the stands, is the Snitch. McCafferty is further away from it than Hawkins, but when Draco looks to the Slytherin Seeker, his eyes aren't anywhere near the damn thing.

"He's playing it right," Potter says, a bit of pride in his voice. "He's keeping his eyes on it without drawing Hawkins's attention."

"C'mon, Lyndall." Draco forces the words through clenched teeth. "Pay attention."

As if the young man can hear Draco, Hawkins's slow scan of the field finally reaches McCafferty. His body tenses, obvious even this far away, and then he's falling into a dive, streaming towards the stands. McCafferty dives half a second later, and Jordan's voice fills the pitch with excitement.

"Both Seekers are moving, folks! This could be it. McCafferty's got a bit more direction here, but Hawkins appears to have some speed on him. And… yes, there it is, there's the Snitch! Hawkins is drawing closer, but McCafferty is almost there, too."

The crowd is nearly silent. Draco can hear Potter breathing next to him, the sharp inhale of his gasp as the Snitch darts straight up into the sky and both Seekers veer up after it. They're in a desperate chase, knocking into each other with body blows that have Draco wincing in sympathy. But the two Seekers keep rising higher and higher into the air until, with another gasp, Hawkins twists, inverts, and starts racing towards the ground. McCafferty tries to duplicate the maneuver, but he's unable to do it and has to slow and stop before diving.

Meanwhile, Hawkins is gaining on the Snitch, which is flying directly towards the ground. A scream is starting to rise from the crowd as he loses altitude, but just before it looks like he'll be unable to recover from the dive, his fingers wrap around the Snitch, and the crowd erupts into a roar, Hawkins pulling up and speeding around the pitch in a victory lap, the still-flapping Snitch clenched tightly in his upraised fist.

Draco is on his feet and cheering, the empty tea cup raised in the air in a mimicry of Hawkins's own hand. Potter, much more sedate, is still sitting on the bench. When Draco turns to give him a good natured ribbing about his House's lackluster skills, he catches the slight rise at the corner of Potter's lips, a grin barely hidden, and laughs instead.

Meanwhile, the headmistress is glaring at Hooch, who's still on the field, working with both team's Beaters to gather the Bludgers. "Should have called cobbing on that nonsense," Minerva mutters. "That Hawkins was using far too much elbow."

"Are you being a sore loser, Minerva?" Draco is not doing a good job of fighting back his amusement. "What kind of example are you setting for our students?"

She scoffs at him. "I'm simply saying that our referee might need to take some time to visit Madam Pomfrey to get her eyes checked, what with that egregious missed call."

"I promise I'll watch for it at the next match," Draco says with mock sincerity. Minerva glares, and he grins.

"You referee?" Potter asks, drawing Draco's attention back to him.

He passes the metal cup back to Potter who sets it on top of the Thurr-Mos and screws it shut. "Yes, actually. I don't officiate any of the Slytherin games, but I do the rest."

Potter doesn't ask about the restriction, which Draco appreciates. He could try to explain the prejudices that still exist when it comes to his House and his past, the way that some parents still look at him sideways when they see him stepping onto the pitch, even if his hair is the closest thing to silver and the grass the only green. Instead, he takes the out presented by Potter not pushing for more information, and moves on.

He turns back to Minerva. "You owe us a bit of gold, Headmistress."

"I will have it for you at dinner." Her tone is almost as cold as the wind that cuts through the scarf wrapped around Draco's neck. "In the meantime, I think we should follow the lead of the rest of the crowd and head inside before it starts to rain."

As she speaks, small drops begin to fall, splashing against the _Protego_ that Draco has in place. They roll across the surface of the spell, held back by magic and will, to fall harmlessly onto the seat next to him.

And onto Potter.

Draco almost feels sorry for the man, but as Potter casts a wandless _Protego_ of his own, his pity is quickly replaced by surprise. He's always known that Potter's magic is strong, but he's rarely reminded in such a visceral way of that fact.

"Thank you for inviting me," Potter says, breaking through Draco's momentary pause. "It's been awhile since I'd seen a match, rather than listening to it on the wireless."

"It was surprisingly not awful." Draco smiles. "Thank you for the tea."

Draco places his foot on the bench below them, Potter blocking the way to the exit, and readies himself to head for the stairs. But though the rest of the professors and students are heading for the stairs, Potter, hands in his pockets, stands but doesn't move. Instead, he looks out over the pitch, eyes distant and unseeing, full of a softness that looks like regret. The smile that had been flirting with his lips all game has disappeared. Draco looks up at Potter, and his breath catches, trapped like a Snitch, fluttering and wild in his lungs. The yearning in the man's expression, in every line of his body, is as evident as the rain falling around them. It coats Draco, covers him with a wistful sense of loss that reminds him of Potter limping around the edge of the Great Hall, facing off against a wizened version of himself, crying on a classroom floor. Draco is frozen, one foot raised, body stiff, struck by Potter like a blow.

When Potter finally starts walking away, his limp is heavy and pronounced, and Draco smothers the desire to ask why.

* * *

There's a manic energy flowing through him after the match, one that forces him from the stands and away from the looming darkness of the castle. Instead, he goes into the locker rooms beneath the stands, winding his way through hallways until he reaches the equipment room.

Draco finds Madam Hooch inside, checking over the balls as she puts them into their trunk. She looks up when he pushes open the door, her yellow eyes glinting like gold in the light.

"Malfoy." She fastens a Bludger into its slot in the case, then rests her elbows on her knees, leaning forward. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I wanted to talk to you about Potter."

"Harry? What about him?"

"I know you've been trying to retire from refereeing"—she nods—"and as long as I can't ref the Slytherin games and there's no one else available to do it, you're stuck."

"I think I see where you're going with this."

"Potter knows the game better than most, and what he doesn't know, we can teach him. There'll be no question about impropriety if he's calling a match, not with his reputation."

"And his leg?" she asks, frowning. "I've seen him limping around the school, and I've read about it in the _Prophet_. You sure he'll be able to sit a broom for the entire match?"

"If it gets bad, I'll spell him. As long as he's the primary officiant, I think we'll be safe."

"He's only supposed to be here for a year."

"And if you aren't tied up in matches for even one term, you'll be able to find a full-time replacement. It'll buy you some time."

She picks up the Quaffle, rolls it around in her hands as she checks the seams and the magic in the ball. Slowly, she nods. "I like it. He agreed to help?"

Draco remembers the wistful expression on Potter's face as he stared at the pitch, the way the weight on his shoulders lightened during the match, the touch of his tea-warmed fingers against Draco's. "He will."

"If you're sure…" She puts the Quaffle away, then closes the trunk. "I'd be happy to bring him on. I'm getting too old for this weather. You want to carry this for me?"

She gestures towards the trunk and, with a sigh, Draco picks it up. It's charmed to be lighter than it looks, but the Bludgers struggle against their straps, and even with dampening charms in place, it's an awkward walk back to the castle. The rain leaves the ground slippery and uncertain beneath his feet. His _Protego_ keeps him from getting soaked, but his boots are wet and squeak against the floor. Hooch holds her office door open for him, and he sets the trunk inside. Before he leaves, she hands him a heavy, familiar manual. It's a copy of _The Official Rulebook of the International Confederation of Wizard's Quidditch Committee_.

"For Mr Potter," Hooch says. She takes her outer robe off and hangs it up. "Have a good night, Mr Malfoy."

"Goodnight."

As he walks to the dungeons, the enormity of what he's just done hits him. He wonders if Potter will maim or kill him for signing him up for this. Perhaps he'll beat Draco with the _Official Rulebook_. It's hefty enough that it'd leave massive bruises, especially against Draco's very pale skin. Or maybe Potter won't beat him. Maybe he'll just tell Draco no and walk away, that damned limp leaving Draco feeling out of step, too.

He sighs, fingers tightening on the cover, and turns around, heading towards the teacher's lounge and his likely doom. It's possible that Potter is there, especially after winning the bet with Minerva, and Draco feels like he should get this over with as quickly as possible, like ripping a plaster off. He also figures that having an audience will make it more likely for Potter to say yes or, at least, not hit him.

However, when he walks into the teacher's lounge, Potter isn't there. Minerva, however, is. She's sitting before the fire in a thickly upholstered arm chair that's pulled up close. Her Gryffindor robes have been replaced with her more usual, sedate ones. Black and closely fitted at the wrists, she looks pensive in a way he hasn't seen since he first started teaching at Hogwarts.

"Minerva," he says, startling her from her thoughts.

She frowns at him. "Already coming after me for the money? I didn't take you to be greedy, Draco."

"No." He smiles, though his chest is tight. "No, I was looking for Potter, actually."

"I think he might be in his quarters." She looks at the heavy book in his hands, then back to his face, eyebrow raised. "What've you done?"

"Nothing." Yet.

She lets out a long breath and turns back to the fire, her arm on the rest, head settled in her hand. "I should've known I couldn't stop you from meddling."

"You've seen him." The tightness grows. "Someone needs to meddle."

"Someone"—her eyes cut to him, menacing but understanding—"needs to learn that it's not his responsibility to make up for all of the wrongs done in the world."

"I'm not."

"Then what _are_ you doing, Draco?"

"I'm…" He trails off, suddenly uncertain.

"Harry has spent most of his life letting others direct it, as much as he'd like to believe he had a choice in the matter. Perhaps taking more choices out of his hands isn't the best way to go about things."

"You don't understand."

"I think I do. I've known that boy since he was an infant. I saw what Albus planned for him, saw him grow into the person he is now..." She trails off, swallows.

"He needs help."

"Perhaps. But are you sure he'll accept it from you?"

It stings, and he hates Minerva with a sudden, fiery passion in that moment. Hates that she would ask that question, that she would even think it, that it would ring with the clarion call of truth. She's been one of his few advocates at Hogwarts, one of the few people he trusts in the world, and her asking a question that pierces to the center of him with such casual intensity makes fury rise in his chest and face. The leather cover of the book creaks under his fingers, and he stares down at its spine, reading the title over and over again and wondering what the ever-loving fuck he thinks he's doing at Hogwarts, trying to help Harry Potter, trying to be something he isn't.

"Draco." Minerva's voice is soft and draws his gaze upwards. "You are a good person with good intentions. You are kind and generous with everyone but yourself. I meant no criticism towards you, young man, only towards the past that exists between you and Harry. If you think he'll accept your help, then I trust you. But I don't want you to hurt yourself if he doesn't."

"I won't. I'm fine."

"You are." She rubs her hand over her face, pushing her glasses up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "I've seen you grow, too, and I'm more and more pleased with who you've become every day. I don't know if I tell you that—"

"I know."

"Good." She smiles a bit sardonically. "Though your insistence on cheering for Slytherin does weigh heavily against you."

"And your insistence on taking bets you know you'll lose weighs in your favor."

"Bah." She waves a dismissive hand towards him. "I do no such thing."

"I'm fairly certain you've lost more bets than you've won."

Her eyes, bright and twinkling with firelight, stay locked on him. "Not the important ones."

* * *

The rulebook heavy in his hands, he carries it back to his classroom, leaving it on his work table because he can't think of what else to do with it. His skin is still buzzing with that persistent energy, so he checks his students' NEWT and OWL potions, then double-checks his classroom inventory. When everything comes back fine—potions are brewing as to be expected, nothing needs restocking—he stands in the middle of the room, hands limp at his sides, the rulebook a heavy weight at his back.

He can't bring himself to go to Potter's quarters. It feels too personal, too revealing in a way he doesn't want to examine closely. He also isn't quite sure where they are, and he's not going to start asking.

The latest copy of _The London Journal of Potioneering_ is stuffed into his desk, so he pulls it out and does his best to focus as he kills time before dinner. Thankfully, there are quite a few interesting articles in the issue, including one on using Muggle chemistry to better analyse why certain potions are more effective than others, even when they're brewed by the same master using the same recipe, and Draco loses himself in calculations and chemical formulas. When the dinner bell goes off, he jumps, startled out of his reading by the soft but persistent ringing. He tucks _The Journal_ under his arm and starts for the door before remembering the rulebook. It's an anchor pressed against his side, his fingers wrapped around the spine like he might stave off the impending disaster if he just holds on tight enough.

The Great Hall is filled with loud, excited voices. Hawkins has pride of place at the Slytherin table, the rest of the team gathered around him and grinning. Other students approach to shake hands or slap them on the back, but Hawkins holds himself outside of it, somehow both victorious and untouchable. Draco makes sure to walk past the table on his way to his seat. He doesn't say anything, just nods at Hawkins, who catches the gesture and grins, wild and young and triumphant.

It forces a genuine smile from Draco, who's suddenly lost in his own memories of Quidditch at Hogwarts and the rush of catching the Snitch, the wind in his face, his broom clenched between his legs, and victory heavy on his tongue.

Everything dims, though, as he approaches the head table to find Potter already seated next to Hagrid, an empty seat on his other side, and looking like his usual, dour, self. His eyes are downcast, his fringe blocking them, but Draco can feel them the minute they land on him. With an insouciant motion, Potter moves his hair to the side, clearing his vision while hiding his scar, green eyes pinning Draco like knives.

The book under his arm grows somehow heavier as he approaches the table and sets it down at his usual place setting. Hagrid leans forward, looking around Potter to squint at Draco's book.

"What d'you got there, Malfoy?"

"A book. I'm sure you failed to recognise it since it's currently not trying to eat any of us." He regrets the words as soon as they're out of his mouth, his voice sounding more childish and haughty than it has in a decade. 

Thankfully, Hagrid laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "That was fun, wasn't it? Must remember to use that textbook again. Keeps the students on their toes."

"If they can keep them."

Potter glances between the two of them like he doesn't understand exactly what's happening, then finally looks at the book between his place setting and Draco's.

"Are you studying up?" he asks a moment before food appears on their plates. 

It's a perfect excuse for Draco to not answer the question. He sets his napkin in his lap, picks up his knife and fork, and starts digging into the shepherd's pie now occupying his plate.

Potter frowns at Draco's lack of response, but chooses to start eating instead of pressing the issue. Feeling it like the reprieve it is—and not entirely certain what it means that Potter isn't pushing for more information when he's never let Draco get away with avoidance tactics before—Draco lets some of the tension in his shoulders disappear.

From that point on, dinner goes smoothly. There's a part of Draco that's prepared for the worst, even without having talked to Potter about anything yet. They keep bumping elbows at the table as they eat. It's a new and unique experience for Draco, who's never had this problem before with any of the other professors—not even Hagrid, whose bulk might explain it away. But somehow, no matter how carefully he moves his arm or how close he holds it to his body, his elbow keeps brushing against Potter's throughout the meal. And even though Draco is on edge, eyes darting warily to his left until dessert disappears from the plates before them, Potter doesn't say anything.

It's not until the tables are clearing of students, the other professors standing and making their way to their beds, that the silence is broken.

"Harry, Draco." Minerva walks towards them, her hand dipping into the pocket of her black robes. "I believe I owe you two something."

Draco can't even feel excited about receiving his winnings. He's too tied up in knots over the rulebook and its hefty weight on the table, and the feel of Potter's bones colliding with his own. He tries for an icy politeness as he turns to face the Headmistress. "It's impolite to talk about money in public, Minerva."

"And it's impolite to not pay your debts." She pulls Galleons from her pocket, separating them into two equal sets with ease. "Perhaps"—she turns her eyes to Potter—"you'll do better than Madam Hooch when it comes to calling fouls. I still think that cobbing was egregious."

Potter frowns, but takes the Galleons from her before asking, "What're you talking about?"

"Refereeing, of course. Did Draco not talk to you yet?"

He knew he'd pay for meddling. Trust Minerva to force the point.

"No. Not yet." Potter looks at him, expression shockingly placid. "What's this about?"

"Hooch wants to retire, but I shouldn't… I can't call the Slytherin games. I thought… Since you were so engaged during the match today, I thought you might be interested."

Potter's smile breaks free like sunlight through clouds, startling and blinding in its intensity. "I would be, actually. I've been thinking about it since Minerva mentioned coaching." He reaches down and rubs his leg, the smile dimming slightly. "It's not that much time on a broom, right? Just for the course of the match?" When Draco nods, Potter continues. "I think my leg could handle that. Is that why you've got the book?"

Draco fumbles for it, then holds it out to Potter. "Yes. It's for you, actually. I have a copy in my chambers."

"Brilliant." Potter takes it from him, shuffling the stack of coins in his hand to make room for the thick tome. "I've got some time before the next Slytherin match, right?"

"It's not until February, so yes."

Potter nods, then looks down at the book. "Thank you."

Draco expected this to hurt, for Potter to immediately dismiss the idea, to lash out and injure. This response, as unexpected and positive as it is, still stings. The soft smile on Potter's face as he looks at the heavy book, the way his fingers cradle it with more care than the gold in his hands, the way his hair falls over his forehead in a careless sweep, it all makes Draco ache.

"You're welcome." Draco swallows. "You'll need to observe some of the training sessions, learn how to catch the most common fouls. Hooch can get you settled with a broom and a copy of the House training schedules."

Potter looks up. "Not you?"

"I thought you'd appreciate Madam Hooch's guidance, rather than mine."

"As usual, you're wrong. When's the next training session?"

"Next weekend. Ravenclaw has the pitch on Saturday, then Hufflepuff on Sunday."

"Send me the schedule. I'll see you then, Malfoy." He smiles at Minerva. "Thank you for the Galleons."

"Have a good night, Harry."

Draco can't feel his legs. The Galleons grow warm in his hand as Potter walks out of the Great Hall, the rulebook tucked safely under his arm. Minerva is a smug presence next to him, and though he wants to scowl at her, he doesn't.

"So." Minerva is smiling. He can feel it. "That went rather well."

"Yes."

"Would you like to discuss it?"

"I would not."

"Is there anything else you'd like to speak with me about?"

"There is not."

"Then have a good night, Professor Malfoy."

"Headmistress."

Now that he's certain his legs will support him, Draco leaves the Great Hall in a haze. His arms feel awkwardly light without the book cradled in them. Even the Galleons aren't enough to distract him from its absence and the knowledge of who it's with now. Draco has no idea where Potter's chambers are, how far from the Great Hall they might be or how long it'll take him to reach them, but the knowledge that once he reaches them, he'll be reading the book that Draco handed to him, to prepare for the task that Draco assigned him, and that he'll be doing it with a smile on his face… It leaves a thin layer of sweat breaking out across Draco's shoulders and neck.

It's a ridiculous response to have at the thought of Potter reading an extremely dry rule book, but it seems like Draco's mind and body are going to be at cross purposes about this tonight. Once he reaches the relative safety of his chambers, he sheds his robes and tries to make the heat in his skin dissipate, to ease the tightness in his shoulders. He rolls them, feels the muscles stretch and pull, and does not think of Potter curled in bed with a book. Minerva's Galleons are tossed haphazardly on his dresser, and he hurries to his en-suite, hoping that a bath will finally let the anxious energy in his body release.

The hot water thankfully calms his racing mind. He lets himself sink into it, the water up to his chin and steaming into his eyes and hair. The nape of his neck is wet, and the muscles there loosen, relax. Once the lassitude settles into his skin, he's able to think logically about Potter.

Or at least as logically as he can be about the man. He's never been very level-headed when it comes to Potter, and rarely has he made the right choices when it comes to their interactions. And now, Draco's managed to worm his way into spending more time with Potter, possibly even becoming—dare he say it— _friendly_ with the man. It boggles the mind and sets his pulse to racing again. A part of him, one that he'd thought long dead and buried, stirs.

It feels like hope.

* * *

Because children have an innate ability to sense when an adult is pretending like a life-altering event isn't occurring, Draco's students immediately start pestering him with questions.

"Professor Malfoy," Davies asks, her hand raised almost as soon as the first year's double potions lesson starts. "How long have you and Professor Potter been friends?"

There's a headache in his future.

"Miss Davies, if you wouldn't mind shifting your focus to potions rather than our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, that would be best."

She persists. "But it's just that you went to the Quidditch match with him, and Freddie said you were holding hands—"

"Miss Davies. Focus."

She sags a bit, her hand drifting to the tabletop a little forlornly.

For a second, he considers turning back to the demonstration he'd been about to start and pretending he didn't burst a Hufflepuff-shaped bubble, but that damned conscience of his twinges painfully, and he fully accepts that the pending headache is about to become his best mate.

"Why did Freddie think we were holding hands?" he forces out. Davies brightens, and the rest of the class turns towards him, eyes bright and disbelieving.

"He said he saw it. He was sitting near the teacher's section, and he said that you were holding hands all through the match."

"Professor Potter and I shared tea."

"That's even better!"

"Miss Davies. We were not holding hands."

"But you're friends?"

"We are colleagues. If that is enough to qualify as friendship, then you're welcome to use that as a measure. Now, if we can get back to the uses and preparations of dittany?"

None of the students try to redirect Draco's attention back to Potter, and though the room deflates somewhat, they do become reinvigorated when Draco takes a knife and cuts a long gash across his palm.

"Essence of dittany," he explains as blood wells in his cupped hand, "will heal a wound on contact, accelerating the rate of healing by a significant amount. But even though it is a fantastic restorative, it is difficult to distill and hard to find due to overharvesting in the late eighteenth century. But in terms of healing cuts or wounds, there is nothing better."

He pours a drop of the brown liquid onto the center of his palm, waits for the unpleasant sensation of skin growing together to pass, then holds his hand up for the class to see. There's a thin, red line where the cut used to be, as if it was made days ago instead of mere minutes.

"Please open your textbooks to page 147, and we'll start going over the process of distilling essence of dittany, other common replacement ingredients when it cannot be found, and their preparation and alternate uses."

Word, of course, gets around that Draco answered questions about his "relationship" with Potter to a room full of first years. As other students start to clamour for his attention between classes, he's forced to fend them off, trying his best to channel Snape's scowl and his father's icy impassivity. And though he's as imperious and distant as he thinks a human can possibly be, it fails to work. Somehow, his students have become convinced that Draco is a kind, warm person, and they push for more, wheedling with bright eyes and sweet smiles, and he crumbles like an overbaked biscuit in the face of their sincerity.

"We were students together, and we played Quidditch against each other."

"No, we weren't very close."

"I have always been taller than him, thank you for noticing."

On and on it goes, until Draco's convinced there are no further topics of interest to be investigated. He eventually has to shoo off the small crowd that's taken to following him through the hallways with a distraction charm, bright lights and fireworks exploding in the dim corridor so that the students have to blink, both from the sudden light and the excitement of it, while Draco flees as gracefully as possible.

It is, perhaps, one of the longest weeks during his tenure at Hogwarts.

Potter, on the other hand, seems to be unaffected by the rumors of their supposed friendship running rampant through the halls. He carts the rulebook around with him to most meals, then gets lost in its pages as he eats half-heartedly, his silverware making lazy approaches to his mouth, his chewing thoughtful and slow. Draco can't remember Potter being particularly bookish when they were in school, but that doesn't seem to be the case now. Whether it's his continually ducked head or the still omnipresent gloom that hangs around him, the students give him a wide berth. There's no clustering crowd trying to force answers from him like there is with Draco. When Draco walks into the hall for lunch mid-week and Laurel Butrum, one of the Slytherin Chasers and a fourth year, comes racing up to him, a copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ clutched in her hands, Potter's head finally lifts from the rulebook, eyes considering and shadowed.

"Professor," she says excitedly. "Can I ask you about the World Cup in 1994? You were there, right?"

What Draco remembers of the match is minimal, at best. The most vibrant memories of that particular occasion are from the night after, when the Death Eaters had roamed through the campgrounds, levitating Muggles into the air and casting the Dark Mark for the first time in years. He has a brief recollection of telling Potter, Weasley, and Granger to get the hell out of there, but otherwise, it's a hazy, uncomfortable point in his past, one of many.

"I was, yes. Did you know that Professor Potter was there as well? I'm sure he'd be happy to answer any questions about the event."

Her eyes turn to Potter, who's looking at the pair of them with a blank expression.

Butrum's excitement visibly diminishes. "I'd rather ask you, if you don't mind?"

Draco isn't sure what it means, that a student would rather talk to her rather taciturn Potions Master than the internationally famous Boy Who Lived, but he puts it down to their House connection and does his best to make the Quidditch World Cup of 1994 sound exciting and fun, rather than terrifying.

The students’ attention is drawn away from Draco by Friday, though. Ravenclaw's Quidditch team has their heads down at the dinner table, likely talking strategy and odds before their practice in the morning. Hufflepuff's team looks on with barely restrained curiosity, and somehow the other Houses are dragged into the growing excitement and tension of next week's match. There isn't as much rivalry between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff as between Gryffindor and Slytherin since their Houses tend to be more pragmatic (Ravenclaw) and easy-going (Hufflepuff) than the other two. But, much like Hagrid and Longbottom's pumpkin-off, there's a friendly animosity between the teams that's infectious.

It gives him a bit of room to breathe, and Draco appreciates it. The respite is brief, though. As he's eating lunch, a magpie Patronus swoops through one of the high windows and swirls around his head before landing gracefully by his plate. It turns its luminous eyes towards him, head tilted in consideration, and then opens its beak.

"Hello, you wonderful prat. I'm popping into Hogsmeade on Sunday, since I know you're desperate for my company. If you're late, I'll hex your bollocks off. Four in the afternoon, Three Broomsticks. Wear something sexy."

Patronuses may be incorporeal, but he's going to find a way to choke Pansy's. Before he can do anything more than lift his hands, though, it pecks at his plate, turns its eye to him before winking, and launches itself back into the air and away.

The Great Hall is painfully silent, and when Draco looks up, almost every face is turned in his direction. He can feel heat rising in his cheeks, and with a sigh, he grabs his morning coffee and leaves without finishing breakfast. Of course, by the time he reaches his classroom, there's a breakfast sandwich sitting on his desk along with a flower and a short note— _Professor must eat!—_ from Dippy. He really isn't certain what her interest says about him, or about human/elf relationships in general (a topic he is _not_ going to think about at length), but he appreciates the gesture and eats the sausage and egg sandwich quickly before his second years arrive and start working on their Fire Protection potions.

Saturday morning is shockingly warm for mid-November in Scotland. The sun is bright and shining, cutting through the chill that hangs in the air. Draco nearly forgoes a jumper, but changes his mind at the last second, figuring that being on a broom will add to the chill and, in the worst case, he can always take it off.

The Ravenclaw team is just getting started on their warm-up when he arrives at the pitch. Potter is already there, leaning against the base of the stands and staring up at the students running warm-up drills up and down the length of the field. He's dressed in flying kit, with fingerless gloves, a heavy outer robe, and leather flying trousers. Draco despairs a little at how good Potter looks in it, even with the scowl covering his face and his fringe hanging in his eyes.

"Good morning," Draco says, feeling awkward as he approaches. It grows worse when Potter just nods, eyes still tracking the students across the sky.

"So, what's the plan?" he finally asks, turning his eyes to Draco. "Are we calling their practice?"

"Partially. We're also going to work on getting you comfortable flying as a referee. It's different than when you're playing."

"Don't grab the Snitch, you mean." He grins, quick and sharp. "I think I can get that."

Draco sighs internally. He's not entirely sure what mood Potter's in, but unlike the bright, warm day, it does not bode well. "Let's get in the air and see how it goes."

The students watch Draco join them in the sky with only mild interest, but when Potter joins them, they perk up a bit.

"Professor Malfoy!" Peony Bivens waves from her position in front of the goals. "You want to join us for a match?"

Draco smiles, charmed by the sixth year Keeper. "Not today, I'm afraid. You all practise as normal and try to ignore us."

"Will do, Professor." She waves to her team, drawing them close as she starts running through strategy.

Draco glances around the pitch, then flies closer to Potter, who's settled at the other set of goalposts. There's a bit of a breeze up here, and Draco's forced to shout to get Potter's attention. "We're going to try to monitor what they're doing once scrimmage starts while keeping out of play. You don't need to actually call any fouls while we're doing it. Stay focused on not getting in the way."

"Sounds thrilling." Potter's hand rests on his left thigh, the fingers pressed into the leather-covered muscle. "What happens if I don't stay out of the way?"

"We're considered part of the pitch during play, so if you don't, they can bowl you over. Just do your best to stay out of their way and, if you can't, don't let them knock you off your broom."

"That sounds more… intense than you made it seem."

Draco frowns. "It can be, but most of the time, you're well out of the mess of things. There are sense-enhancing potions and spells if you want to be safe."

That seems to leech some of the tension from Potter's body. "All right." He lifts his chin towards the other end of the pitch. "Seems like they're ready to start."

Potter's right. The Ravenclaw team breaks into formation, using only half of the pitch to practise defensive maneuvers. It's good for Draco and Potter, who fly lazily around the edges of the pitch, their eyes trained on the Chasers and Beaters as they weave in and out of each other, the Quaffle flying with ease as the Beaters do their best with practice Bludgers to interfere with their passes. Salton, Early, and Pickrell, the Ravenclaw Chasers, function like a well-oiled machine, and Draco's distracted by the ease with which they move the Quaffle around the field. As Early makes a particularly difficult pass, Potter shouts, startling Draco.

When he turns, Potter's fallen off his broom, and Graham Kerwood is cursing loudly and apologising. A practice Bludger is on the ground, twenty feet below them, and as Potter glares at it and tries to get his seat back, his expression twists into a rictus of pain, and he grabs at his left leg with a cry.

"Back off, Kerwood!" Draco calls out, swooping in close enough to grab Potter's still dangling form and help him back onto his broom. The other man shoves Draco's hands away, teeth bared.

"Don't touch me, Malfoy." Potter grabs his leg with another grimace, then slowly drops towards the ground.

"Is he okay?" Kerwood asks, face ashen. "I didn't see him, honest."

"It's fine. He'll be fine. Go back to practice."

Draco wishes he could do more to calm the shaken third year, but Potter's on the ground now and limping quickly towards the stands. With a curse, Draco hurries after him, diving at the ground like Hawkins had when he chased the Snitch.

"Potter!" Draco hollers, then jumps from his broom. He barely stumbles as he runs after the man, who's picked up speed as much as he can. His left leg is dragging behind him, though, and Draco matches his pace, slowing a bit to catch his breath before he reaches for Potter's shoulder to stop him, then pulls his hand back. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To my chambers," Potter snarls, then walks into the stands. "I don't know why I thought this was a good idea. I don't know why I let you convince me… I _know_ better. Fuck."

Out of the sun, Draco has to squint to see clearly. There are lights in here, of course, but it's dim and his eyes struggle to adjust. "What are you talking about, Potter?"

"I can't fly," he snarls, turning around to advance on Draco, his eyes bright with anger. "I can't sit a bloody broom. This blasted leg has taken everything from me, and you"—his muscled body, hidden by his robes, seems to swell as he backs Draco against the wall—"you _knew_ this was going to happen. I don't know what kind of sick pleasure you take out of watching me fail, but fuck you, Malfoy. Fuck you and your goddamned rule book and your goddamned attempt at whatever the fuck this is."

Potter throws his broom down at Draco's feet, then stalks away. Dimly, Draco knows he should chase after the man, should try to explain why Draco wanted this for Potter, but his ears are ringing and the only thing holding him up is the wall. He pants, uncertain if it's from emotion or racing after Potter, but it only takes a moment longer for his startled shock to be replaced by foaming rage.

Draco shoves himself away from the wall and sprints after Potter. He's not gone too far. Instead of heading back to Hogwarts, like Draco assumed he would, he's only ducked around a corner, his back pressed against the wall, his head in his hands, fingers twisted in his hair. He's speaking quietly to himself under his breath, too low for Draco to make out the words, only the emotion. It sounds like hate and despair, and the anger fades from Draco's body in a rush. He takes a careful step back, then another, until he's hidden again in the labyrinthian hallway, but still close enough that he can make out the low, broken murmur of Potter's voice. Unconsciously mimicking Potter's pose, Draco leans against the wall and lets his head fall back, thumping quietly against the plaster as he listens to indistinct recrimination.

It's a long time before Potter finally leaves, his uneven steps loud in the silence. It's longer before Draco follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been reading and commenting so far! You're all making this so much fun for me, not gonna lie. ♥♥♥


	7. Chapter 7

Draco isn't quite sure what to do with his new, still uncertain, understanding of Potter. But if there's one thing that Draco knows, it's pain and how it can destroy someone, inside and out. How it requires care and concern, and since Potter certainly won't accept it from Draco, he'll have to go a different route entirely.

The Hogwarts kitchens are rarely quiet, and even more rarely empty. Sneaking down in the middle of the night, the clock chiming _go to bed!_ as he leaves his chambers, makes him feel like an idiot sixteen-year-old, and that's not a feeling he ever appreciates. But as he pushes his way into the still lingering warmth of the kitchen and finds it empty except for two house-elves seated at a table with small plates of half-eaten food between them, he breathes out a sigh of relief.

"Excuse me," he says awkwardly, drawing the elves's attention. "Do you happen to know where Dippy is?"

One nods, then gets up from the table. "One moment, Professor. Tally will bring her here for you."

There's a sharp crack, and the elf disappears, leaving Draco alone with the other. Uncertain of what protocol would dictate in this situation, he finds a seat at one of the tables, hands clasped before him as he fights to not fidget.

After a few anxious minutes, Draco wondering if this was all a big mistake and if he should just go back to bed and let Potter fester, Dippy taps his elbow, startling him though he doesn't jump.

"Professor wanted to see Dippy, sir?" Her eyes are wide and filled with fear. He hates it.

"Yes. Please"—he moves down the bench seat a little before gesturing towards the vacated spot—"have a seat. I'd like to talk to you."

"Is Professor upset?" She sits, a bit pale. "Dippy didn't mean to upset Professor, honest."

"No, no. I'm not upset, not with you." At her frown, he continues. "It's about Professor Potter, Dippy. You've been incredibly kind to me, and while I have, sincerely, appreciated it, I think Professor Potter might appreciate it more."

Tears start to fill her overly large eyes. "Professor _is_ upset with Dippy."

Oh Merlin. "No. No, no, no." He fumbles for a handkerchief, viciously glad that he'd thought to put on real clothing and not stay in his nightshirt. He presses it into Dippy's trembling hands. "Please, don't cry. If you don't want to stop helping me, I won't make you. I only wanted you to know that Professor Potter would also be thankful for the kindness."

She sniffles but doesn't use the handkerchief. Instead, she holds it in her hands, staring at the faint lacework around its edges, the monogrammed DLM in the corner. "Professor wants Dippy to help Professor Potter?"

"Yes, exactly."

"And still help Professor?"

"Only if you want to."

She nods, her hands tangling in the handkerchief before she folds it delicately, with care, and slides it into the pocket of the simple dress she's wearing. "If Professor would like Dippy to help Professor Potter, then Dippy will. But"—she looks uncertain again—"how should Dippy help, sir?"

"Feed him?" Draco winces. "If he needs something for his classroom, make sure he has it. I don't really know what it is that a house-elf does for someone."

"House-elves care for their Masters, for the ones they are tasked to watch over. Dippy protects Professor, protects all the Professors, like all Hogwarts elves do. But if Professor Potter needs more, then Dippy will make sure he has it. He is kind, and he was a friend to Dobby, and all Hogwarts elves owe Dobby a debt that can never be repaid."

Draco nods, throat tight, and stands. "Thank you, Dippy."

"Thank you, Professor." Her hand rests over top of her pocket. "Professor is kind and good, and Dippy is happy Professor is here."

He nods again, uncertain why his composure is slipping so quickly, and heads back to his chambers and his shrouded bed, pretending the pricking at the corner of his eyes is due to exhaustion and not emotion.

* * *

He's tired in the morning, eyes gritty and body filled with tension. As he stares at his open wardrobe, wondering which of his school robes would qualify as "sexy," he grabs an old grey jumper and some plain, black trousers instead, figuring the children will be intelligent enough not to comment on his lack of professional attire, even on the weekend.

He eats breakfast with eyes heavy on him, but he keeps his head down and stays focused on his plate instead of the conspicuous absence of Potter down the table. Hagrid tries to draw Draco into conversation, but when he's only met with monosyllabic responses, he desists, his bearded face twisted into something like a scowl or, more likely, pity.

After choking down his food, Draco immediately leaves for Hogsmeade. He knows Pansy won't be there for hours yet, but he can't stay at Hogwarts right now. He knows that Kerwood is watching, noting Potter's vacant seat with undeserved guilt. Knows that the rest of the Ravenclaw team is likely doing the same. And while Draco also understands that Potter's response to this… setback, of sorts, isn't Draco's fault, is more a reflection of whatever thing Potter is wrestling with after years of being a tool that's now broken and shelved, he can't help but think that it _is_ his fault. That it's some petty remnant from his school years, where all he wanted was Potter to be knocked down a peg, made equal with Draco so that they could, maybe, learn how to see each other as something less than friends, but more than enemies.

Hands stuffed in his pockets, steps heavy and slow, he loses track of time walking to Hogsmeade. Whatever brightness the weather had decided to dole out the day before is lost in heavy clouds and a wickedly sharp wind that cuts through his warming charms and his jumper. He regrets not bringing at least a cloak, but he doesn't turn back for it. His feet are on the path, and dammit, he's continuing down it.

The wind softens when Draco reaches town. Heavy stone buildings serving as windbreaks, he ducks into Gladrags and purchases a black cloak lined with a silk the same color as the stormy sky outside and woven with warming charms. It envelops him in a sense of comfort and ease, and when he leaves the shop, it's with a bit more certainty in his steps, the guilt not so heavy across his shoulders.

He stops by the Apothecary to order a few supplies he knows he's a short on and reads through some of the newer scientific magazines. There's an interesting treatise on the different distillations achieved with pewter cauldrons, and he adds a copy of the magazine to his purchase so he can review it later. The proprietor, an older wizard whose face is crosshatched with laugh lines and wrinkles, is genial and kind, smiling at Draco from his wizened face as he rings him up.

"It's good to see you in town, Professor," he says, sliding Draco's magazine into a paper sack. "You send us so many order forms, I would know your name anywhere, even if I didn't recognise the face."

His gut twists. "Thank you. If you could send those things to the castle for me?"

"Oh, of course, of course." The man puts Draco's purchases into a pile and wraps them with brown paper and twine, seemingly unaware of the way Draco is reeling. "Couldn't expect you to cart these around with you all day, I'm sure. We'll send everything along with an owl later today."

Draco nods again, numb, and pays the smiling man.

It's still so odd to him, that people have started to forget his name, his twisted legacy. Odd that trauma can fade so quickly, even with all the scars it leaves behind. Perhaps it's the change of context, of the shift that the Malfoy name has undergone over time, from accused-and-acquitted war criminal to professor. Maybe it's because his father is dead and buried. Draco pulls the cloak closer around his shoulders, smells a mix of musk and spice, and hurries from the store into the crisp, fresh air outside.

It's just past noon, and he goes to the Three Broomsticks because he can't think of anything else to do with himself. They're serving Sunday roast, and he finds a table in the back, nestled into a corner where he can watch the door and keep his back to the wall. The beef is tender and falls apart beneath his fork, the potatoes soft and seasoned liberally with salt. There's a side of cauliflower cheese and brussel sprouts, and a Yorkshire pudding that should, based on size alone, be its own meal. He eats it all somewhat methodically, trying to enjoy the meal but struggling with the ache in his gut. It's delicious, and feels like ash on his tongue.

Pansy arrives just before four, and Draco is lucky enough to spot her before she spots him. She's wearing a gorgeous cloak that glistens with a multitude of muted colors, like bright, flowing water over a rocky streambed. When she pulls it from her shoulders, the silver clasp at its neck glinting in the low light of the Broomsticks, her outfit beneath is understated, but no less beautiful. It's perfectly tailored, clinging to the delicate arch of her shoulder and the taper of her waist, the light fabric of her shirt a perfect compliment to the stark matte black of her skirt. She drapes the cloak over her arm, tucking it neatly into the crook of her elbow, and then she sees him. Her smile, bright and surprised and full of joy, is the most beautiful part of her outfit.

"Draco," she says as she approaches the table. He stands, and she gestures for him to sit. He ignores her, pulls her into a tight hug and presses a kiss to the top of her head, which only just reaches his chin. "If I knew I'd get such an enthusiastic hello, I would've brought Theo to run interference. Now, let me go, you great ponce. You're making a scene."

He grins as he sits, her cheeks stained red with a blush. It's the first time he's felt something akin to happiness since his fight with Potter, seeing her ruffled self settle into the chair opposite him, her eyes turned down to the table.

"It's good to see you, Pans."

"Of course, it is." She sniffs, tosses her hair. "I'm incredible. But we're not here to talk about me. We're here to talk about your Snitch."

"I'd rather not."

"Oh. Really."

"How's Theo?"

"He's wonderful, extremely virile, makes me a very happy wife nightly. Spends far too much money on me. But you're changing the subject." She leans forward, frowning. "Darling, what's wrong?"

He sighs and reaches for his pocket. "You want a pint?"

"Gin, neat. But when you come back with it, we're talking."

He feels her eyes on his back as he walks to the bar and places his order with Rosmerta. It's a bit awkward, nearly a decade of time just enough to blunt the edge of their acquaintance, but she doesn't poison the drinks and he doesn't make eye contact, and it's fine.

Pansy leans back in her chair when he sits back down, her glass resting between her fingers in the way that people born with money have of holding a glass, as if they don't care that it's there or what it contains, as long as it accents the gracefulness of their hands. It's the same way that Draco holds his whiskey when he drinks it, though today his hand is wrapped around a pint, pretending to be lower class than it really is.

"What's happened?" She picks her glass up, eyes on him as she sips. "And who do I need to kill?"

"Merlin, Pans." He throws himself back in the bench seat, stomach churning around his heavy lunch. "Don't joke like that."

"Talk to me."

"Fine." He spins his pint glass on the table. "It's Potter."

"Of fucking course it's Potter. I wouldn't be here if it were anyone else. Now, tell me what the idiot's done this time."

He raises an eyebrow. "This time? I haven't seen him since my trial."

"And that sent you into a spiral that took you to a different continent for five years. Since I can only assume you're running into him daily now, I'm honestly shocked to still find you here. Now, spill."

"He's an Auror, as I'm sure you know." She rolls her eyes, but he continues. "Apparently, he was injured and is now recuperating at Hogwarts while teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"I read the _Prophet._ "

"Anyway," he says, stressing the world while she laughs into her drink, "I… saw something—something that I will _not_ tell you about, no matter how much you try to bribe me—and I thought we were becoming… Maybe not friends, precisely, but friend _ly_. I signed him up to help referee Quidditch, and… Well, it went to shit." He leans forward, puts his head in his cupped hands. "I'm an idiot."

"Oh, darling." Pansy's hand is warm on his elbow. "We've known that for years. Why is this any different?"

He laughs, though he doesn't want to, and looks at her through the barrier of his fingers. "Because this time I thought it might be different."

Her smile lances through him, full of pity and love. Eyes shut again, he breathes deeply, heart aching. "I thought I'd left it all behind, Pansy. That this was done and over with. And then, it's not, and I'm twisting myself into knots over someone who hates my guts."

"We don't have any choice in who we love."

He laughs again, but it's brittle and broken. "Who said anything about love?"

"Salazar, Draco." Her hand tightens on his elbow. "What're you going to do?"

Leaning back on a heavy inhale, he shakes his head. "I don't think it matters anymore, honestly. He's made his feelings clear on the matter. I figure we'll get through the rest of this term and the next, and then I'll pretend that this awful interlude was some kind of twisted fever dream and move on with my life."

"Like you've done so far."

"Yes. Exactly."

She sighs and takes a drink. There aren't very many people in the Broomsticks today, and Draco appreciates the semi-public privacy they have right now. Pansy lets the gin sit on her tongue, lets it hold back words while she ponders them, her piercing eyes on him until he has to look away.

"Draco."

"I know."

"What got his knickers in a twist, anyway?"

"His leg. He got surprised by a Bludger, I think, and nearly fell off his broom, and his leg acted up."

"And you're sure things going to shit wasn't a response to the pain? Or to being weak in front of you, or in front of the students?"

"No, he made it very clear that he hates me." Draco finally sips his beer and tries not to choke on its bitter taste. "Minerva told me not to meddle."

"You never know when to listen."

"No, I don't."

"Well, there's nothing to be done, then." She takes another sip of her gin. "I'll have to kill him."

Draco chokes on his beer. "Pansy!"

"What? What else is there to do? I either kill him or make him wish he were dead."

"I think he's already there."

"Well…" She trails off, her joking demeanor immediately replaced by uncomfortable honesty. "Well, if that's the case, you should at least know why."

"Why what?"

"Why he wishes he were dead. I mean, honestly. He's Harry bloody Potter. If the Saviour of the Wizarding World wants to off himself, then the rest of us better get our things in order."

"Honestly, I don't know." Draco runs a hand through his hair and immediately regrets it when blond strands fall across his forehead and into his eyes. "Hagrid said something about Robards, about the Aurors, but I wasn't able to learn more."

"Start there, pet." She reaches across the table, brushes his hair back. "Maybe if you can understand why he's twisted up, you'll figure yourself out, too."

Their conversation veers from the topic of Harry Potter after that, Pansy likely sensing that Draco needs a reprieve. Instead, they talk about Pansy's recent trip to the Continent and how she nearly managed to steal the _Mona Lisa_ this time, though Theo had stopped her before she even reached the gallery, and the pair of them had cast a Notice-Me-Not charm and shagged near the French Crown Jewels instead.

He's a bit tipsy when he walks back to Hogwarts, his cheeks flushed from cold and drink, and his heart full of warmth from nothing more than his best friend telling him he'll be okay. It's dark, and his _Lumos_ floats near his head, throwing the path back to Hogwarts into focus. The clouds have, thankfully, cleared, and the stars above flicker and wink in and out of sight. As he draws closer to home, he extinguishes his spell and lets himself follow the lights of the Great Hall, back to where he belongs.

* * *

His head is splitting the next morning, and he downs a hangover potion on an empty stomach, waits for the rush of nausea to pass, and then gets back to work. Though his first years are shockingly well-behaved, and only one of them manages to make a catastrophic mistake while brewing the cure for boils they're practicing today, he is still irate at the end of first period.

Robinson comes loping in for second period, a smile spread across his face, his bag hanging carelessly over his shoulder, and knocks against one of the work tables, sending a cauldron clattering to the floor. It makes Draco's head pound, even the hangover cure not enough to manage the after-effects of a day spent drinking and brooding, and he snaps.

"Ten points from Gryffindor," he growls, waiting for Robinson to pick up the empty cauldron from the floor. "And if you cannot manage to stop yourself from damaging my equipment, perhaps you shouldn't be in this class."

Robinson's tanned skin pales. "What? But, Professor, my OWLs—"

"If you cannot keep a cauldron on a bloody table, Robinson, I don't know how you expect to pass the things. Now, take a seat."

Draco immediately feels like an arsehole, and as the rest of the class filters into the room, taking in Robinson's hunched shoulders and Draco's scowling face, it grows worse. He mutters his way through his lecture, then abandons the topic and tells them to read the next chapter of their textbooks. As the end of the period approaches, Robinson starts shoving his things into his bag angrily, clearly looking to escape as soon as possible. Draco curses himself again.

"Robinson, you'll stay after."

The boy—the _child_ —freezes, and the rest of the fifth year students fall silent. When the period finally ends, Robinson's head bent, his half-packed bag an accusative lump on the table before him, Nautica gives Draco a long, hard stare before pressing a commiserating hand to Robinson's shoulder.

"I'll wait for you," she says, voice quiet as she glares daggers at Draco.

Part of Draco warms at the inter-house unity he's witnessing, especially between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin, but most of him feels like a pillock. Once the classroom empties, he lets out a long, controlled breath, and approaches Robinson.

"I'm sorry." The young man's head snaps up, eyes wide. Draco continues. "I don't have a good explanation for my behavior, though you do need to be more careful in this classroom. Potions are dangerous, and there are only so many times you can get by with minor injuries when you go knocking cauldrons over or melting them." Draco closes his eyes, breathes. "But I shouldn't have snapped at you, or implied that you do not have a place in this room. Just… Can you please, _please_ , try to be more careful?"

"Yes, Professor." Robinson looks down at his bag, then back up again. "It's just…"

"What?"

"You taught my brother. He's a few years older than me, graduated when you first started, and he…" Robinson swallows. "Well, he didn't have anything nice to say about you."

Draco sighs, remembering the older Robinson, an equally Gryffindor-ish young man with dark hair and a glare that haunted Draco through the hallways. "I'm not terribly surprised."

"The only thing is," Robinson continues, "you aren't awful."

From the mouths of babes, Draco thinks, head aching.

"I mean, you're strict for sure, and your exams are bloody difficult, but you're a professor. I think that's just part of the job, yeah?" He looks up, cheeks flushing, and looks back at this bag. He toys with the strap anxiously. "But I'm still a bit… nervous, I guess. You make me a bit nervous."

"It's the pickled gnome, isn't it?" It shocks a laugh from Robinson, which is exactly what Draco was aiming for. "I understand, Patrick, and it's fine. You're allowed to be nervous. Just… try not to bump into so many things."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, get out of here before Naughty comes back in to trounce me."

Draco didn't think it was possible, but Robinson's cheeks turn even redder. "Yes, sir."

He keeps the smile off his face long enough to see Nautica's eyes light up when Robinson joins her in the corridor, his bag carefully tucked in close to his body, and his hand, briefly, reaching for hers.

It makes Draco's stomach twist, thinking of another dark haired Gryffindor, and he's glad he has enough time before the second and third years arrive to right himself, as if he's a bit of equipment knocked on its side and dented, waiting for a simple _Reparo_ to make everything even and whole again.

* * *

The rest of his week is spent in an awful half-haze of reality and anxiety. Classes are, thankfully, uneventful after that first day. Draco puts at least some of it down to him not being hungover on Tuesday, but it also seems that word has traveled around the castle that Professor Malfoy is on the fritz, and his students are treating him with kid gloves. As much as it irks him—he might not want to put the fear of God into his students, but he certainly doesn't want this mild-mannered pity they've got going on right now—it also gives him a little bit of space to breathe and think.

Of course, most of that thinking is about Potter and their disastrous referee practice. He replays the moment he turned to see Potter falling off of his broom, the vitriol that Potter had flung at him inside the stands, the bitter and awful whispered words Potter had directed only at himself. Again and again, Draco goes through the memories, trying to untangle the threads of emotion woven tight in his chest.

Obviously, some of it is tied up in the actual injury that Potter has. As much as he hides—or forgets—his limp, Potter was working as an Auror, was bringing in a suspect of some sort, and had been injured in the line of duty. Draco digs out a copy of the _Prophet_ from the library that talks about the event, though it's rather short on details.

_Auror Potter, while apprehending a suspected dark wizard, was seriously injured. He is recovering at St. Mungo's and has requested that any well-wishes, gifts, or cards be sent to The Ministry of Magic, Whitehall London, C/O Head Auror Robards._

Draco's lip quirks up at that, though he quashes the impulse towards amusement as quickly as it rises. There are further articles about Potter and his recovery, but much like the first, they're thin on information. Frustrated, and eyes a little sore from staring at the small print in the dim light of the library, he leans back in his chair and gives up trying to figure this out on his own.

His first stop is Minerva's office. The gargoyle grumbles at him, its rocky throat crackling with bad humor, before letting him up the winding staircase. 

Like all of the Headmasters and Headmistresses of Hogwarts, Minerva has made the space her own. Though Draco hadn't had much opportunity to see the office when Dumbledore was in charge, he vaguely remembers books, piles of letters and correspondence, and lots of gold, spinning mechanical things. Minerva's gone for a much more sedate look. There are still books—it would be a waste of the wide expanse of shelves covering the back wall to put them to any other use—but the mechanical odds-and-ends are gone, replaced by framed photographs of smiling Hogwarts students, various transfigured artifacts he knows she's kept from prior years's classes, and a large cushion dusted with grey fur. Draco does his best to ignore the stuffed mouse tucked into the corner next to it.

McGonagall is behind her desk, greying head bent over a heavy book, and when she looks up at him from over the rim of her spectacles, it's with only the tiniest hint of suspicion.

"Draco. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He pulls up a chair in front of her desk, though she doesn't direct him to do so. Instead, she places a bookmark on her page and closes the text, the pages throwing up a tiny cloud of dust as it slams shut.

"I'd like to ask you about Professor Potter."

"Is it safe for me to assume that your offer of assistance didn't go as well as you'd hoped?"

He flinches.

"I'll take that as a yes." She removes her glasses and sighs. "As I said before, you shouldn't agonise over Mr Potter. I will admit, though, that I thought he was open to the idea at dinner."

"He was. But practice…"

"It didn't go well?"

"No."

She sighs. "Then you should let it be. There's not much more you can do, I imagine. Harry will have to come to terms with these things on his own, as much as it pains me to admit it. He's rather stubborn. A House trait, I believe, that he would be better off giving up."

"I want to understand, though," Draco says, persistent and dogged by a desperate need to find out more. "He was fine, up until…"

"Until suddenly he wasn't." She sighs. "That's how trauma works, I'm afraid. You're fine until you're not."

Draco swallows. He knows she's right. He's dealt with that same dichotomy before, the way something in the world will strike him just right, and he's suddenly back in the Room of Requirement, flames hot around his face and his friends screaming. Or he'll walk into the Manor, and the light will catch the portraits, and he'll be thrust back to the awful days when the Dark Lord's malevolence was ground into the flagstones, so thick in the air it choked him. 

But those moments make sense to Draco, even when they don't. They're fear, stark and vivid, but also faded, half-forgotten already after nearly ten years. They're still there, _it's_ still there, because no matter how much time passes, the memories still exist, still terrify. But Potter's leg, his reaction to nearly falling, none of it makes sense to Draco, who's seen Potter plummet from a broom, intentionally or otherwise, a hundred times since he was eleven, and never once caught an edge of terror in those too-green eyes.

"What happened?" The words come, unbidden but necessary.

"That's not my story to tell, Draco."

"But—"

"If Harry wants you to know, he will tell you."

"But you _do_ know."

"I do, and I'll not have you try to drag it out of me and ruin a lovely afternoon. Now"—she opens the book again, reaching for her glasses—"if you'd be so kind as to tell the gargoyle on your way out that I'm not to be disturbed unless in an emergency, I have work I need to get back to."

Draco recognises the dismissal and hates it. Still, he rises to his feet, nods perfunctorily at Minerva, and slumps off down the stairs, feeling worse than he had when he arrived.

Hagrid isn't much more use than Minerva, though Draco at least gets sweets and tea when he pops in unannounced at Hagrid's hut in the middle of the week. Though the conversation quickly devolves into an argument about how many kelpies are too many for the Lake, and whether or not Hagrid should start a breeding program—"They're endangered, Malfoy, did you know that? Don't find them out in the wild much anymore. This could be a chance to reintroduce them, to bring the population back!" "They're not in the wild anymore because they _kill people indiscriminately_." "But have you seen the foals?"—Hagrid seems to know more than he's saying about Harry's state of mind. He hems and haws, can't look Draco in the eyes, and his cheeks—even hidden under his thick, salt-and-pepper beard—turn a bright red.

Eventually, as Draco's getting close to the point of hexing the man to get the truth from him, Hagrid shoos him from the hut, muttering something about patrols in the Forbidden Forest, and detention, and feeding the kelpies.

Draco stomps his way back to the castle, his rainstorm cloak pulled tight around his shoulders. It is, of course, his luck that Potter is wandering his way to Hagrid's hut at the same time. His hair, still dark and unruly, wild like the night, is caught in the setting sun. It looks like it's lit from inside, as if it's on fire, as if Potter has a halo, the way that a saviour deserves. But his eyes are dark, and the deep circles beneath them seem to have grown since Draco saw Potter last. For a brief moment, there's a flash of emotion across Potter's face as he meets Draco's stare, and then he pushes his way past, eyes on the ground, mouth a hard line that Draco doesn't want to remember softened into a smile.

Running out of options, Draco has one final place to go for information. But even though he realises it on Wednesday, he can't bear to ask for help until Friday.

The greenhouses are shockingly warm compared to the mid-November chill outside. When Draco pushes his way inside, the back of his neck immediately prickles with sweat and humidity. His cloak lays gently over his arm, though the inside of his elbow starts to sweat, too. The dog violets are nowhere to be seen, so there's no barking announcement of his presence in the greenhouse. Instead, he clears his throat, hoping that Longbottom is close enough to hear. When there's no response, he sighs, then shouts.

"Longbottom!"

A tousled head pokes out from a thick layer of hanging greenery.

"Malfoy. What're you doing here?"

"I need a moment of your time."

"Could've owled, mate." Longbottom disappears again, and Draco walks closer before freezing at the sight hidden by the hanging vines.

Longbottom, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, has both hands buried in a large pot of soil. In between his forearms is a plant, or at least that's what Draco thinks it is. It's certainly green, and it has leaves, of a sort, but it also has _eyes_ , ones that glint with an alien intelligence that makes Draco's skin crawl. Its thick green vines and leaves are slightly tangled around Longbottom's forearms, moving slowly across his skin. Its eyes shift from Longbottom's face to Draco's, and something predatory sparks in them.

"What the bloody hell is that?"

"Hey now, watch your fucking mouth," Longbottom says, voice soft and even and completely at odds with his words. "I'd rather you not upset her."

"Her? Do plants have gender now?"

"These ones do." Longbottom's arms shift, and the plant-thing turns its—her?—gaze from Draco back to Longbottom. "And if you're not careful about what you say, _she_ will eat me."

"I don't…" Draco takes a hesitant step back, reconsidering this plan of attack.

"What do you need, Malfoy? The faster you get it over with, the more attention I can pay to this beauty."

"You and Potter, you're friends?"

"Yes." Longbottom shifts his hands again, and the plant starts purring, the sound of pleasure making Draco's mouth turn down in slight disgust. "Though I haven't seen much of him lately, not since he was hurt."

"About that. What happened?"

"He was on a mission…" The plant's purring increases, and Longbottom coos at it, murmuring sweet nothings that sound vaguely familiar to Draco. 

None of this makes him feel any better about approaching the Gryffindor for help.

"And while he was on this mission?"

Longbottom pulls away from the plant carefully, his arms stained with dirt and a disturbingly sweet-smelling sap. He takes a careful step away, the plant's eyes on him before they disappear. They don't close because the thing doesn't have any eyelids, they just seem to vanish into her green flesh. Draco shudders.

"Why are you asking after Harry?" Longbottom says before turning to his workbench and carefully scraping the sap from his arms into a jar. "I thought you two were doing the whole 'we're only communicating via glare' thing this year."

"Well, not entirely."

"Fantastic. Go ask Harry about his leg."

Draco glares. "He's not speaking to me currently."

"So, it _is_ glares, then."

"Merlin, Longbottom." Draco huffs out a sigh. "What will it cost me?"

Longbottom grins, eyes sparkling with glee. "What've you got?"

"A Middlemist rose."

"Pull the other."

"No," Draco drawls, knowing he's got Longbottom's attention. "We have one at the Manor."

"Malfoy. There are only two of them in the world."

"Three."

"Two."

" _Three_. And one"—he smiles, aiming for charming but likely ending up closer to maniacal—"could be yours."

Longbottom bites his lip, then finishes scraping the sap from his arms. After he seals the jar, he casts a quick _Scourgify_ , then turns back to Draco. "You're not having me on?"

"I am not."

"You really want to know about Harry's leg that badly?"

"Yes."

Longbottom worries his lip, then looks at Draco through his lashes. "When'll it get here?"

Draco doesn't crow in victory, but it's a near thing. "I can have it here by next weekend. I'll need to talk to the gardener first."

"I look forward to you ruining that person's day." Longbottom nods towards his office. "C'mon, let's sit. It'll take a bit to go over everything."

Dread tangling in his stomach, Draco follows after Longbottom, who opens the door to his office and walks around his large, wooden desk. It's cooler in here than in the main greenhouse, and Draco senses cooling charms in the corners, helping to mitigate the heat. But after the damp humidity of the greenhouse and all the sweat, it leaves him chilled rather than refreshed. He takes a seat, mouth dry, and waits for Longbottom to get comfortable.

"So," he starts, "how much do you know?"

"Only what was in the _Prophet_ ," Draco answers. He wraps his hands in his cloak, hoping he doesn't look as anxious as he feels. "And what I learned from Hagrid."

"I'm surprised you didn't get more from him. The man's like a sieve when it comes to information. So. Just the basics, then." Longbottom nods and leans back in his chair. "Harry was working a potions ring, something illegal and dangerous from what Ron's told me. They had a lab set up in some rundown thing near Knockturn, and Harry's team was tasked with raiding the place and clearing it out. I guess his team had gone through the building already, and Harry was just doing clean up, double-checking closets and the like. He surprised one of the dark wizards involved in the ring, and they dueled. The bastard hit Harry with something nasty on his left leg and hip, and Harry…" Longbottom trails off.

"What happened?"

"Harry cast a jinx, completely normal, non-lethal. But the wizard fell down a flight of stairs and broke his neck. Dead instantly."

"Salazar."

"Yeah. Harry was cleared, of course. Easy enough to prove it was self-defense, but between the injury and the inquiry after, Robards sent him here." Longbottom shrugs as if it's nothing, but the tense line of his shoulders says otherwise. "To recuperate."

"How bad was the injury?"

"That's the odd part. I've never been able to find out for certain. It damaged a lot of his leg, but Ron and Hermione insist that it was fully healed while Harry was at St. Mungo's."

"But he's still limping."

"Yeah."

Draco frowns. "If he's fully healed, why does he still have a limp?"

"Not sure, honestly." Longbottom shakes his head. "I'm not a Healer."

"Neither am I. What'd Granger and Weasley have to say about it?"

"Ah, that…" Longbottom shifts awkwardly in his seat. "Not entirely sure that's part of the deal, Malfoy."

"It's a Middlemist rose."

Longbottom bites his lip again, looks away. "They've not seen much of Harry, not since he got out of hospital. I don't know if it's just that they're busy with their kids, or Harry was busy getting ready for term to start, but I've seen more of him than they have." 

Draco lets out a long breath. "Thank you for telling me."

"Anytime." Longbottom pauses. "Don't say anything to Harry, though. Not even in glares. He's… I dunno, sensitive about his leg."

"So I've gathered."

"You didn't ask him about it, did you?" Longbottom looks poleaxed. "Fuck, Malfoy, I didn't think you were stupid."

"Fuck you, Longbottom, but no, I didn't ask him about it. It came up while we were flying."

"You got him on a broom?"

"Briefly."

"Well done. Still, don't push on this. He's still healing, one way or the other, and he can be a stubborn prat when he puts his mind to it." Longbottom gives Draco a pointed look. "Let me know when the flower's on its way? I've got to get that _Fangonia_ back into the locked room before she tricks one of the students into approaching."

"You still haven't told me what that thing is."

"You really don't want to know, Malfoy. I'll talk to you when the rose is here."

Draco leaves the greenhouse, skin clammy from the heat and the sudden wet cold outside. It's dark out, and he's likely missed dinner. Foregoing a _Lumos_ , he heads back to the castle through the twilight gloom as he wonders about injuries and healing.

* * *

Saturday opens with a cold that's sharp enough to hurt, but the sky is clear of clouds and achingly blue, and there's no wind to be seen. The sun glints off the lake, the squid making slow, undulating rolls through its surface as the students head down to the Quidditch Pitch for the Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff match.

Draco's in his full referee kit. It's not much different from standard Quidditch gear, but he's got a black-and-white checkered robe on over top of his flying leathers, and there's a magically charmed whistle around his neck. The robe is woven with warming, cushioning, and warning charms, all meant to keep him comfortable and safe from any wayward players or Bludgers that might come whizzing out of the air while he's not paying attention. He thinks of Potter, dangling from his broom, and feels a twinge of guilt that he hadn't thought to spell Potter before they got on their brooms. But with nothing to be done about the past, Draco shifts his focus to now and the gathering crowd.

The parents in the stands don't pay him much attention, though he catches a handful of baleful glares when he enters the pitch with the equipment trunk. He sets it in the middle of the field, then waits for the captains to join him. Peony Blivens, the Ravenclaw captain, is the first to approach. Her Keeper's helmet is under her arm, her dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, and she gives him a bright smile.

"Morning, Professor."

"Good morning, Ms Blivens. Ready for the match?"

"Absolutely. These Hufflepuffs won't know what hit them."

He smiles. "Oh, you never know. They have a way of surprising you, sometimes."

"Not this time." She grins conspiratorially. "We've got them figured out this year, just you wait."

Myles Allred scoffs, coming to join Draco and Blivens in the center of the pitch. "Not likely." His nod to Draco is accompanied by a wink. "Good morning, Professor Malfoy."

"Good morning. Now, as much fun as this exchange has been, shall we get started?"

They both nod, and Draco runs through the basic rules of the match and has the captains shake hands. Their grips are painfully tight, and he fights the urge to roll his eyes at youthful competition. Both captains jump on their brooms and rise into the air. Draco readies the trunk, spelled to release the Bludgers and Snitch when his hand leaves the Quaffle, and gets onto his own broom. The Quaffle is warm under his arm, and as he sits in the center of the pitch, glancing left, then right, to make sure both teams are ready, he blows his whistle and throws the red leather ball as high into the air as he can.

It's a bit of chaos after that. Both teams seem extra determined to win today. Draco blames it on the sunshine, but it does make it hard to keep track of play. He rises above the field, nearly to the top of the towers ringing the stands, and watches with magically enhanced vision. About twenty minutes into the match, he has to call cobbing on Ryder Benson, one of the Hufflepuff Chasers. Benson sits near the sidelines for five minutes while play continues, and Ravenclaw capitalises on it, scoring back-to-back goals that widens their lead on Hufflepuff to forty points.

Neither team's Seeker has spotted the Snitch, not as far as Draco can tell. He's seen it once or twice, a quick glint of gold that he idly notes while making sure the rest of the players don't manage to kill themselves or others. He has to dodge Bludgers a handful of times, and part of him wonders if the Beaters are sending them his way on purpose. When he realises that Jessica Salton, a third year Ravenclaw and the youngest member of the team, is making sure to pass close by him whenever a Bludger is on her tail, theoretically distracting the ball with Draco's presence, he has to fight from laughing out loud.

The stands are packed solid today. As play continues, Ravenclaw doing their best to increase their lead, he scans the crowd for dark hair and curses himself for it. Unsurprisingly, Potter is seated next to Minerva and Hagrid, though he doesn't look pleased about it. Longbottom is sitting on the bleacher behind him, leaning forward to talk to Potter and point out plays. Unlike at the previous match, Potter doesn't seem to be having a good time, though his sour mood lessens the longer the game goes on. Draco keeps having to refocus on the gameplay, rather than the tousled dot of Potter in the stands.

It's during one of these moments—Draco can't seem to stop himself from looking—when there's a cry from the Hufflepuff stands. Turning, Draco sees Benjamin Knowles, the Hufflepuff Seeker, streaking across the pitch, hand outstretched towards flashing gold. Iona MacLaren is heading towards him, but she's too far to make it, and the sixth year comes up with the Snitch, yelling in triumph as the stands erupt into black and yellow banners.

The final score is 160 to 70, a respectable margin, and one that puts Ravenclaw dead last in the standings behind Slytherin, Hufflepuff, and then Gryffindor. Draco figures Allred will be absolutely unbearable that evening and likely into the week, and that the glint of determination in Biven's eyes will only have sharpened.

Children. Honestly.

He collects the Snitch from Knowles, who's an excited mess, and then spends about fifteen minutes chasing after the Bludgers. He manages to wrestle both of them at the same time, the blasted things shaking and jerking against his sides as he carefully flies down to the ground with only his legs to control the broom. His thighs are going to ache later, but he's a little proud that he can still manage the trick. Everything gets locked into the trunk, and wiping sweat from his forehead, he closes it, stretches, and sighs.

The stands are empty except for a few stragglers, and Draco hefts the trunk into his arms, muscles straining, and walks inside. He's stopped almost immediately by Potter.

It feels like a twisted memory. Draco's stunned and blinking, and Potter is standing in the middle of the hallway, his hands clenched. Only this time, he can't meet Draco's eyes, and rather than looking furious, he looks embarrassed.

"Professor Potter." Draco is pleased that his voice is steady, even with the trunk jerking in his arms. "How can I help you?"

"Dammit, Malfoy." Potter glares at him. "You would make this hard, wouldn't you?"

"I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about, Professor. If you don't mind, I need to get these put away."

Draco takes a step forward, and Potter places his hand on top of the trunk. There's a faint scar across the back of it, something that looks like words, but Draco's eyes are drawn away from Potter's marred skin by his hissed, quiet curse.

"I'm here to apologise."

"That's very kind of you. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Potter pushes against the trunk, stopping Draco again. "Dammit, Malfoy. Let me do this properly, will you?"

Draco doesn't respond, just swallows around bile and fear.

"I was an arse last weekend. My leg… It's just… Sometimes, it hurts, and I can't… But that's no excuse for shouting at you, especially when you've only been… And after everything…"—he swallows, face pale—"After _attacking_ you, I shouldn't have assumed the worst. You've been nothing but professional, even when I've given you no reason to be. And I shouldn't have… I mean… Anyway. I'm sorry."

"Thank you, Harry." Draco doesn't feel a twinge of triumph when Potter's head jerks up, his eyes wide. "I appreciate your apology, though I told you not to mention the… unfortunate incident in your classroom again. You weren't in your right mind. And I'm also sorry I didn't do more to ensure your safety during practice. If you're no longer interested in refereeing, I understand."

"No, I…" Potter swallows and pulls his hand away from the trunk. "I'm still interested. I'll just… I'll need to train, I guess, to get used to it. I should've realised."

Draco's chest aches, and it's not from the weight of the trunk banging softly against his ribs. "I'll talk to Madam Pomfrey about what our options might be. She's aware of your medical history?"

Potter nods.

"Okay. Then I will see you next weekend for more practice?"

"Yeah, that's… Thank you, Malfoy. Draco."

"Now, if you will excuse me. I do need to get this trunk put away."

Potter steps to the side to let Draco pass. When he's about to turn the corner to the equipment room, Potter calls out.

"Malfoy! Did you send Dippy after me?"

Draco looks over his shoulder, keeping his expression as placid as possible. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Potter. I've never understood the whims of house-elves."

When Potter smiles, it's as bright as the November sun. "Of course not. I'll see you at dinner, then."

"Good day, Potter."

Draco turns the corner and heads into the equipment room. After he sets the trunk down and makes sure it's secured with locking and security charms, he sits heavily on a pile of old robes waiting to be Vanished, drops his head between his knees, and lets himself shake, quietly, and for a long time.


	8. Chapter 8

Pomfrey is irrationally excited when Draco approaches her about exercises to strengthen flying muscles.

"I've always said," she says as she potters around the Infirmary, digging through a cupboard frantically before closing it and moving onto the next one, "that being a Healer isn't just about fixing broken bones or skinned knees, but that it's also about exercise and diet. If you're taking an interest in properly caring for yourself, finally, then I will absolutely do whatever I can to help you, Draco."

Draco blinks. "Um. It's not for me, precisely."

"Don't be embarrassed, child. It's okay to want to get in better shape." She gives him a quick glance, one that feels both clinical and appreciative. "Not that much to improve upon, I would think."

Struggling to come up with a response to _that_ , Draco's mouth opens and closes a handful of times before he presses his lips firmly together and decides to get through this ordeal and leave before Pomfrey asks if he's busy this weekend. Which he is.

Eventually, she comes up with a book that barely deserves the name. It's poorly bound, the cover made of thin cardstock rather than leather or something more durable. There's a black and white drawing of a Quidditch player on the front, her arm stretched forward with the Snitch hanging just out of reach. In a heavy script that loops and swirls around the illustration, the title stands out clearly, even from across the room: _Best Practices for the Best Players: A Quidditch Strengthening Primer._

"Here you go, young man." Pomfrey holds the book out to him, and Draco takes it with only the slightest hesitancy. "Let me know if that helps at all."

Draco nods, then makes a hasty exit when Pomfrey starts giving him another too-perceptive once-over.

The exercises in the book are surprisingly comprehensive. There's an entire section on grip strength for both Seekers and Chasers, with a focus on different techniques for each position, and sections detailing strength-building exercises for Beaters and Chasers. It's even got a section on agility-building for Keepers. For Draco's purposes, though, the most useful section is towards the end of the book. It's a chapter simply titled _General Exercises_ which focuses on leg and core exercises for flying. Draco reads it twice, nodding quietly as he does so, and makes mental notes about which exercises will likely help Potter's leg and hip. He wonders about having Potter visit Pomfrey instead, then discards the idea. If the man is as sensitive about his injury as he's proven to be, Draco doubts Potter will be willing to go see a medical professional about his lingering issues, especially after intensive treatment at St. Mungo's.

His opportunity to discuss the exercises arrives earlier than Draco expects. Potter is at lunch, seated between Hagrid and Draco's usual seat as if he hadn't avoided the Great Hall for all of the past week. He looks up when Draco approaches the Head Table, then ducks his head, cheeks stained red and shoulders tight.

"Potter," Draco says before taking a seat. His mug fills quickly with coffee, and he pours a splash of milk in before taking a careful sip.

Potter doesn't lift his head, instead pushing food around on his plate. "Malfoy."

"How are you this morning?"

"Fine, thank you."

Draco doesn't know why he's doing this. "It should be nice weather out today. The forecast says sunshine."

Potter, thankfully, puts Draco out of his misery. "Do you need something, Malfoy?"

"I have a book," he says, feeling incredibly foolish and off-kilter, "with some exercises that I think will help you. With the problem we talked about. Yesterday."

If there were a kind and loving God in the world, they would immediately strike Draco dead and get him out of this moment. But, evidently, that God also has a twisted sense of humor, and Draco finds himself still alive, blinking at Potter as he tries to comprehend the idiocy flowing out of his own worthless mouth.

"What?"

"Here." Draco pulls the guide from his robe and sets it next to Potter's plate. "For your leg."

"Ah." Potter flushes again, but he picks up the book, turns it over to look at the blank back cover, and then slides it into his robes. "Thank you."

"If you've a mind," Draco starts, and wishes he hadn't, "it's another nice day. We could work on them together this afternoon. After lunch."

"I've got some marking to do first," Potter says, face still flushed.

Draco feels irrational disappointment and fights to keep it from his face. "Of course. Some other time, then."

"But," Potter says, eyes bright, "it shouldn't take me more than an hour or two. I can… I'll find you, later? And we can… work on it, I guess? Late afternoon?"

"Ah. Yes. That will. That's fine." Draco coughs. "I will likely be in my quarters this afternoon, if you know where they are…"

"I do."

Draco doesn't think about that. "Come find me, then, whenever you're ready."

"Okay." Potter smiles, and it's startling in its simplicity, in the quiet curve of his lips. "I'll see you then."

"Yes."

Draco looks down at his plate, watches as pasta and pesto and grilled chicken fills it. There's a nice spinach side salad as well, the dark green leaves interspersed with heavy, ripe cherry tomatoes and carefully diced mushrooms. Methodically, he eats it, does his best to not notice Potter lingering over his empty plate, does his best to not notice when the man leaves. Draco's coffee burns his tongue, and a glass of water appears next to his plate, along with a small folded piece of paper.

It's from Dippy. Her handwriting is nearly indecipherable, childish in its scrawl. Eventually, he's able to make out most of it.

_Profesor,_

_Dippy has given Profesor Pottur food like you asked. He was not hapi at first, but is now eating evrything Dippy sends. He luks hapi now. Dippy will keep feeding Profesor Pottur._

_Dippy_

He smiles, then tucks it into his robe where the book used to be, and tries to not let that particular pocket's location near his heart become a thing.

* * *

A few hours later, his feet tucked up in his chair, a new novel pressed into the crease between his knees, Draco's startled out of reading by a knock at his door. He shouts, "Come in!" before he can really think about who is most definitely on the other side of the door, and that's how Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, finds Draco Malfoy, disgraced heir of one of the oldest wizarding families and respected potions master, curled into a Gryffindor chair with his feet bare.

"Uh," Potter says eloquently, his hand still on the door knob.

"Quite," Draco replies, equally as verbose. "Just a moment, Potter. I lost track of time."

He grabs a pair of socks from his dresser, but his boots are nowhere to be found. Cursing quietly to himself, he considers checking under the bed, then remembers he's a bloody wizard before casting _Accio_. He's nearly beaned in the head by the boots, of course, so the embarrassment isn't avoided after all, but Potter has the decency to not snicker, and when Draco finishes stuffing his feet into his boots, Potter's eyes are turned fixedly to the hallway outside of Draco's rooms.

"Shall we?" he asks, as if this is normal, and Potter nods.

The walk to the pitch is one of the most painfully awkward moments of Draco's life. He's had plenty of opportunities to feel uncomfortable in his own skin. He is, after all, a former Death Eater and a wealthy, privileged man, though one aware of that privilege and all of the boons it has awarded him in his life. Struck down as thoroughly as someone in his position can be, he has been literally sneered at, spit upon, and accosted since the end of the War. When he first started looking for apprenticeships for potions, he was laughed out of more than one institution of higher learning. He has had to walk through crowded streets with eyes heavy on him, his robe tightly cinched at the wrists so that there was no chance of his Mark showing, even by accident. And that's not even touching on the indignities and cruelties he was faced with while the Dark Lord lived at the Manor, and all of the dark, terrible nights his presence brought with it.

But as he and Potter trail through the corridors of Hogwarts, students watching them both with mute fascination, and neither of them speaking, he thinks that this walk is quite likely never going to be topped for moments he would rather not have experienced.

Thankfully, once they pass through the front doors and step into the warm sunlight, the tension eases. Potter's body goes lax in the shoulders, the clenched muscles softening as he tilts his face up to the light. A gentle breeze flits past, lifting a curl of his too-long hair and sending it across his forehead, shadowing his half-lidded eyes.

"It really is nice out, isn't it?" Potter asks, then startles when he realises he's voiced the question aloud.

"It's lovely," Draco chokes out, looking away before he can't. "Hopefully the pitch isn't too crowded."

Potter frowns, finally looking at Draco. "You think it will be?"

"No, not really." He hates his mouth. "It's the day after a match. It tends to be rather empty then."

Potter nods, looks away. "I don't know that I want an audience."

"I've gathered that."

"Look, Malfoy"—Potter rounds on him, eyes fiery and unexpectedly fierce—"if you're just taking the piss, I swear, I'll hex your bollocks off. I'm trying, dammit, and I thought—"

"I was joking, Potter. Merlin." Draco's heart is racing. "You're more prickly than a porcupine."

Potter's mouth clamps shut, twisting into something between anger and embarrassment. "Old habits."

Draco shakes his head, then steps through the ground entrance of the pitch. "You should work on that. Honestly, it's like you think I'm out to get you or something."

"I think the evidence would support that theory."

It startles a laugh from Draco, who looks over his shoulder to Potter as he shakes his head. "You're impossible, aren't you? Is this something you've cultivated since graduation, or a lifelong skill I was unaware of?"

"Piss off, Malfoy." Potter's smiling when he says it. He throws something to Draco, who catches it before he realises what's happening. "Let's get started, yeah? I think the walk warmed me up."

Draco looks down at the book in his hands, then turns to the final chapter and the stretches there. "Fine. But you'd be better off doing some actual exercise, if you want that leg of yours to loosen up."

Potter rolls his eyes, but heads for the edge of the pitch, his pace somewhere between a fast walk and a slow jog. Draco watches Potter as he circles the field, waiting for the limp to appear. It's visible, but less so than when he and Potter were last on the pitch together. Potter is definitely favoring his right side, but as he passes the halfway point on his circuit, that lessens until there's almost no hint of tightness in the hip or leg.

When he stops next to Draco, Potter's forehead is dotted with a thin layer of sweat, and when he brushes his hair to the side, it stays there, slightly damp and tangled. Draco's fingers itch and, not for the first time, he wonders if he's made a horrible mistake.

"So," Potter asks, drawing Draco's attention again, "where do we start?"

Draco looks to the book like the escape that it is, then feels his throat tighten at the drawings scattered across the page. He hadn't considered it beforehand, but now he's absolutely confirmed in his position that this was a bad idea.

"Most of these," he starts, his voice a strangled mess that he coughs clear, "require you to lay down. If that's a problem…" But Potter's already laying himself down on the soft, green grass, his eyes trained on Draco.

"What's next?"

"Well." Draco takes a hesitant step forward. "I need your right leg."

Potter frowns. "My right?"

"I need to see what your range of motion is on your uninjured side first. We'll use it as a baseline for your left."

Potter nods as much as he can while lying down, then bends his right knee and lifts his foot from the ground. Draco steps forward to catch it, and he's caught off-guard by the weight of Potter's leg in his hand.

He doesn't know why he starts talking Potter through the stretches, but he thinks some of it is to keep his mind busy while fighting against the sudden rush of blood from his brain to other places in his body. The first stretch has Draco kneeling between Potter's legs, his right leg raised in the air while Draco holds it and presses it towards Potter's chest.

"Let me know if it starts to hurt," he says to Potter's calf, and he tries not to get distracted by the thick muscles of Potter's thigh jumping beneath Draco's hand.

"It's fine," Potter says on an exhale. "You can go deeper."

He's going to hell for this, he knows it, but he does as he's told, and swears to himself that he won't remember those words in Potter's breathy voice later, when Draco is safely hidden away in his bathroom and the only person there to judge is himself.

It only gets worse from there. The next stretch has Draco bent over top of Potter, Potter's right leg thrown over his left and bent at the knee, with Draco pressing it towards the ground. His arm is resting in the space between Potter's neck and shoulder, and there's nowhere else to look but Potter's too-bright eyes. He has the decency to keep them shut for most of the stretch, mouth a tight line as he breathes through it, until they open, and Draco thinks that this is karma, finally striking him down for picking the wrong side during the War.

His thoughts disappear into a haze as they move through the exercises. The fifth stretch—Draco kneeling by Potter's feet, Potter's knees bent open and Draco pressing them to the ground, opening up Potter's hips—nearly ends him. The final stretch has Potter—blessedly, cursedly—on his front, leaning on his arms as Draco presses his hand to Potter's lower back and raises Potter's legs, one at a time, off the ground. Draco lets his head hang down, eyes shut as he waits for Potter to call him out on how inappropriate this whole event has been, and that Draco should probably not speak to Potter ever again if he has any shred of common decency, which he clearly doesn't because he's almost desperate for the sense of Potter's muscles shifting under his hand as the man groans beneath him, cursing when Draco pushes just a bit too far on Potter's left side.

"I'm sorry," Draco says, moving away as if burnt.

Potter, pushing himself up in a graceful roll of muscle that does nothing to help Draco feel like less of a lech, shakes his head, then smiles as he gets to his feet. "You know, I think that helped, actually." He does a quick half-squat, then goes deeper, thighs tightening visibly beneath his soft cotton joggers. When he stands, he's full-out grinning. "That's brilliant, actually. Best it's felt in months."

"That's fantastic news." Draco hopes he doesn't look flushed, though he knows he probably is. "Your left side is certainly less flexible than the right, but if the stretches are helping, that's a good sign."

"How often does it say I need to do these?" Potter asks, shaking his left leg out a little.

"At least ten to fifteen minutes a day."

"And you'll need to help with them?"

A cruel God, indeed. "Not always, no. The next section covers stretches you can do on your own."

"That's great." He smiles again, bright and genuine, and Draco feels like he's got a layer of scum on him for finding any part of helping Potter feel less pain erotic. "What's next?"

 _Death_ , he thinks viciously. "We could do a handful of laps on brooms, see if it helps your seat at all? And I could walk you through some basics of monitoring the field?"

Potter nods, all enthusiasm again, their earlier fight and Potter's uncertainty and anger seemingly forgotten. He hurries to the equipment cabinet, then comes back with two practice brooms in hand. He tosses one to Draco, who catches it before Potter shouts, "Last one to the goalposts is a Hufflepuff!"

Potter's in the air before Draco can even comprehend his words, but then he's flying after the laughing git, and they lose themselves in the sky for the rest of the afternoon, feeling young and foolish and wonderfully weightless with it all.

* * *

When Draco finally tumbles off of his broom onto the cool, soft grass of the pitch, he's breathing hard enough that his vision is dotted with white. Potter, the utter prat, seems untouched. Still standing, looking no worse for wear—leg be damned—he looms over Draco, Potter's mouth quirked into a vaguely triumphant smile.

"You all right there, Malfoy?"

"Bloody fine." Draco focuses on breathing. "Go away."

Potter laughs, and it makes Draco's frantic breath catch in his chest. "If you say so. I'll see you at supper?"

Draco waves at Potter. "Yes. Now, go away so I can die with some dignity."

"If that's what you're calling it…" Potter shakes his head, puts the practice broom away, and heads towards the exit, shouting a quick, "I'll make sure to send flowers!" before leaving.

Draco shuts his eyes and tries to process the last hour and a half of his life. After the initial, inappropriate rush of touching Potter, Draco found himself actually enjoying the experience of flying with the man. Distance seemed to help the most, though there were moments when Draco caught sight of Potter's smiling, laughing face, his hair whipping around in the wind, green eyes bright and shining behind his glasses, and it was just as bad as being perched above his body on the grass.

Draco has spent more of his life in denial than he likes to admit, even to himself. Denial that he was anything more than an overly-privileged prat as a child; that his parents honestly meant well when they allied themselves with the Dark Lord; that they only wanted the best world for Draco and his children; that the idea of having his body entwined with someone with breasts and softly curving hips didn't immediately put him into a cold sweat. He learned how to lie to himself early and often, and it's only in the last handful of years that he's started untangling all of it into something resembling truth.

The worst part, perhaps, is that so many of those slow, awful realisations are wrapped up with Potter. Looking back on his life, he finds—again and again—Harry Potter tied into each of those moments. Their mortifying first meeting at Madam Malkin's, when Draco had recited the things he heard from his father because he thought it would make him sound intelligent, adult, enviable. Potter's pale and shaken face as Draco confronted him on the Hogwarts Express after Diggory's death, shouting that Potter was too late, now. Draco's nose aches on cold days, sometimes, still not entirely right after Weasley punched him in the face during the Battle of Hogwarts (the pain reminds him that he deserved it). And in the days after the War ended, Draco lay awake at night and remembered the way Potter looked at his trial, the way his hands shook but his voice didn't, and how he refused to meet Draco's eyes while he argued that the Malfoys had switched sides at the last moment, how Draco's mother had lied to the Dark Lord and saved Harry's life, all to protect her son. Draco remembered those earnest words and the taut line of Potter's shoulders and the tremor of his hands, and though it shamed him, Draco took himself in hand and came, time and time again, to the memory of Potter's voice saying Draco's name with confidence and no fear.

He should have known the second Potter walked into the Great Hall that it would send Draco spiraling back into bad habits. And he has been aware of it. Stalking after Potter in the halls, paying too close attention to him at meals, and now this: the idiocy of putting Potter on a broom and making sure that Draco was there to watch. Even if Potter stayed morose and withdrawn, he would be devastating. After all, Draco's attraction to the man formed when they'd been at each other's throats, on opposite sides of a war, literally trying to kill each other on more than one occasion. But a smiling Potter, one that turns that smile towards Draco and _means it_ …

He's so fucked.

Sighing, he rolls to his side, then his feet. His back is damp from the pitch, and his robes are likely stained with it, too. He'll carry the scent of bruised grass with him into the castle, into his rooms, into his bath where he'll wash as much of it from his skin as he can. But any time he smells it, that green-cut-grass scent, he'll remember the flash of a smile, wind-tangled black hair, and eyes, too bright and too knowing, creased with laughter.

* * *

With the excitement of the last Quidditch match of the term now in the past, the students start getting restless. Draco wouldn't necessarily call the student body of Hogwarts rest _ful_ , even on their best days, but with Christmas fast approaching and very little to keep their attention, he approaches each class with a heightened level of trepidation. 

Robinson is, thankfully, much more attentive to the potions lab and the equipment within. Draco rewards the fifth years by showing them one of his favourite potions, a flashy thing that's a bear to brew but results in a delightfully carbonated potion that, when drunk, makes you feel childlike wonder for five minutes. The class dissolves into giggles after they drink it, running around like three-year-olds on a playground as they press their noses to all of the various things in jars around the classroom with wide and excited eyes. Draco watches it bemusedly as he stoppers the last bit of the potion for later, though he knows he won't drink it himself.

He and Potter also continue their referee practice. Most of the time, they're settled in the staff room with the _Official Rulebook_ spread open on the table before them, Potter picking his way through the vagaries of Quidditch fouls and Draco trying not to laugh when Potter gets irrationally irritated when something contradicts itself. Once, while he and Draco are getting into a particularly heated exchange over whether or not the Hawkshead Attacking Formation qualifies as stooging—Draco knows it doesn't, but it's fun to watch Potter's neck get blotchy and his eyes light up with inner fire—Minerva walks into the staff room, looks at them both, then slowly backs out. He and Potter stop talking, look at each other, then burst into laughter that has both of them wiping tears from their eyes, any further study of the _Rulebook_ forgotten as they try to catch their breath.

Draco catches Potter staring at him sometimes, his expression contemplative and a little lost. It reminds him of being in potions with the man, back when they were petty children who thought their rivalry something monumental. It's the same look that Potter had while brewing, that focused confusion he carried with him whenever his recipe said one thing and he did another, and he, inevitably, came away with a mess. It's like Potter is trying to break down the steps he's taken to reach this point, to find the place where he deviated from the path to wind up at a different ending entirely. Draco can't tell if Potter's unhappy about it or not, just focuses on the thin furrow between his brows and the way it eases when he smiles.

They've only been back to the pitch twice since their first successful practice. Potter had rushed through the stretches, much to Draco's mutual relief and dismay, then spent the rest of their time together flying circles around Draco. Even with the sharp bite of December, Draco's warmed through by it, and when he curls up in his bed at night, body sore and heart aching, he hopes there'll be more time for them to fly together, away from the earth and all of the concerns it holds close with gravity and memory.

* * *

Between the increased stress of keeping his students focused and the exhausting challenge of being near Potter while he's in a good mood, Draco's caught off guard by his final class of term. His fourth year students nearly fly from the classroom, and he's left with their detritus, cauldrons and stands and bits of ingredients still untidy on the benchtops. It's like the moment after the Battle of Hogwarts, when everything fell still and quiet, and the survivors looked around at each other, wondering and stunned that they'd made it through.

He doesn't even mind cleaning up after them. It gives him something to do with his hands as he slowly realises that with term over, he's going to have to finally answer his mother's letter about what Draco's planned for Christmas this year, and whether or not he'll be coming home for it.

It's not that he doesn't love his mother, because he does. He loves her with a devoted passion that he can't explain, a depth of emotion that chokes him sometimes with its ferocity. He sees her, and he thinks of her bending low over Potter's still body and asking if Draco was alive, even though death stood behind her, waiting and hungry. Thinks of the way her eyes had shone with unshed tears when they found each other after, and the steelband strength of her arms wrapped around his shoulders as they'd embraced in the middle of the still-smoking battlefield.

But as much as he loves his mother, he despises the Manor. Whenever he steps through its door, he's reminded of the things that happened there almost a decade ago, of the things he did—was forced to do—in the still-dark, damp basement. He knows it's morbid and over-the-top, but he swears that the grim deeds committed in its walls have infected the Manor, have soaked into the foundation and the joists until everything Draco sees is a thin veneer overtop of rot and decay. He can taste it in the back of his mouth with every breath, and he never sleeps easily there, not the way he does at Hogwarts.

But he loves his mother, and she loves her home, and Draco pens her a letter, letting her know that he'll be there for Christmas and Boxing Day, and he sends it off with only the slightest twinge of disquiet.

* * *

Minerva corners Draco in the staff room on the day the students are leaving for holidays.

"You're coming with me to the platform," she informs him before he can even open his mouth to say hello. "Dress warm. It's grown quite cold."

"It's December in Scotland, Minerva. It's never not cold."

"How are your rooms in the dungeon treating you?"

"They're fine." He fights a smile. "Is there any particular reason you'd like me to accompany you this year? As I recall, you haven't extended the invitation before."

"It's not an invitation, Professor Malfoy, it's an order." She pushes her glasses up her nose as she says it, eyebrows quirked as she waits for him to process the words.

"Well. If it's an order. I'll need to swing by my chambers to get my cloak. Shall I meet you at the front doors?"

"I will expect you in fifteen minutes, and not a second later." She smiles at him. "And don't think I won't time you."

Draco laughs, then casts a quick timing charm. "Fifteen minutes, then."

He hurries through the hallways, uncertain if it would still be undignified for him to run if there's no one there to see him do it. He decides on a half-jog instead, slowing whenever he hears footsteps other than his own. The few people he does see are either other professors or one of the handful of students staying for holidays. They nod at him as he walks past and refrain from commenting on his flushed face and slightly disheveled robes.

That is, until he runs into Potter.

He doesn't _literally_ run into Potter, of course. His luck holds up better than that. It isn't good enough, though, because he's nearly sprinting when he comes around the corner, his eye half on the timer charm glowing at his wrist. Potter steps out of a small alcove in the hallway, startling Draco enough that he shouts and nearly falls.

"Merlin!" He grabs at his chest as he stops running. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"Not today, no."

Draco glares at him. "Not funny, Potter. What in the hell are you doing, lurking down here?"

Potter trails after him as Draco hurries to his chamber doors. The lock clicks open beneath his hand, and he pushes his way inside, glancing around for his cloak. It's not until he has it in his hands and he's turning back to the door that he realises that Potter hasn't answered.

"I'm not getting any younger," he says, startled again with the way that Potter's broad shoulders fill his doorway. "What do you want?"

Potter's hands clench. Draco walks closer, expecting the other man to shift from the doorway, but instead, Potter stays put, hands tight fists by his sides.

"I…" Potter swallows, then drags his tongue over his lower lip. Draco traces the motion, his worry about getting back to Minerva on time disappearing like the sheen of Potter's saliva as the man exhales. "I need to talk. To you."

"Then talk." Draco's hands are sweating in his cloak. "I've got to get to the Express."

"Are you going to London for Christmas?"

Draco, shakes his head, puzzled at the tone in Potter's voice. "No. I'll be at the Manor. And you?"

"Here." Potter looks away, away from Draco's eyes, then back again. "Maybe with Ron and Hermione."

"Fantastic. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

Draco takes another step forward and, expecting common courtesy to shift Potter when it hadn't before, finds his boots scuffing against the toes of Potter's. He looks down at the way their shoes are barely touching, just the slightest bit of hard sole against sole, then up and into green.

Potter's close enough for Draco to make out the individual flecks of color that make up his eyes. Emerald and verdigris, twined through with deep forest and fern. Potter's eyes are like spring bounding forth, and Draco's trapped by them as surely as if they were made of Devil's Snare.

"What…" Draco can't catch his breath. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

Potter's eyes drift from Draco's to his lips and linger there.

"Are we…"—Potter shifts forward, leaning in closer to Draco—"are we friends now, Malfoy?"

Draco feels the pull of those words like Apparition, a hook in his gut drawing him forward. He wants to follow that feeling, to find out where it's taking him. Instead, he finds his breath, and speech.

"Yes. We're friends."

Potter's eyes meet Draco's again, and he doesn't know what's going to happen in the next second. He doesn't know if Harry's going to step closer or away, if he'll unclench those strong, capable hands of his and put them somewhere on Draco's body. They stand in the doorway, half-in, half-out, just waiting to see what direction they might go.

And then, Draco's timer charm goes off, shattering the moment like a glass dropped on stone, like a startled spell splashing blood on wet tile. Potter steps back as if pushed, and Draco slams his hand over top of the charm, cutting off its shrill ring.

"I—"

"No, you said—"

"We'll talk," Draco forces the words out, speaking over Harry. "When I get back from the train, we'll talk."

Potter doesn't say anything, just takes another step away from Draco's chambers and into the hallway. He nods, eventually, and looks away. Draco locks his door and takes a few hesitant steps from his rooms, then stops and turns around.

Potter is already gone.

* * *

"I thought I told you not to be late," Minerva says, frowning at Draco as he runs through the front doors. A beat later, her frown deepens. "My boy, are you all right?"

"Yes," he pants, lying. "Yes, I'm fine."

"Hm. We'd best be off, then."

He follows after her, though his mind is still in his doorway, still in the too-bright, too-alive green of Potter's eyes.

Friends. So much meaning in such a small word. And the way that Potter had stared at him, his body so close to Draco's that they might have touched if either of them had moved in the direction they hadn't…

"Draco, are you sure you're feeling all right?" Minerva places her hand on his arm. "You're pale as death."

"I'm…" He swallows. "I just need a few minutes, Minerva. There was something that kept me."

"Is there something I should be aware of? Was a student injured?"

"No, nothing like that." He runs his hand through his hair, not caring that it leaves it disheveled and askew. 

Minerva's eyes widen as she takes in his lack of concern. "Good lord, Draco. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

She sighs. "I didn't think you would. Will you tell me anything?" He shakes his head, and she sighs again. "So, it's about Harry, then?"

"I really hate that you can read me so well." He glares at her. "Are those glasses of yours enchanted?"

"No, but I know you well enough to guess that when something's bothering you lately, Mr Potter is generally not far behind. You're nothing if not consistent."

He stops. "You didn't know?"

She doesn't answer, just raises an eyebrow. "Tell me what happened between you two."

Draco starts walking again, picking up his pace until Minerva starts to trail a step behind. He's hit with guilt, fast and hard, and slows until she catches up again. "He asked if we're friends."

"And are you?"

"By mutual agreement, it seems."

"I don't see what the problem is, then." She smiles at a student that runs past, hurrying to the station. "That seems like a rather promising turn of events."

Draco scoffs. "For your peace of mind, probably."

"And not yours?"

He doesn't respond. They're stepping onto the platform, and any opportunity Minerva has to respond or pry deeper is drowned out by the noise of the train and hundreds of children. Even though he's pressed in on all sides by students, Draco feels like he can finally breathe. There's too much noise for conversation, too much activity for anyone to pay him any mind. With the quiet certainty that comes with swimming through chaos, he slowly processes his way through the last thirty minutes of his life and the implication it all brings.

By the end of it, he's not entirely sure he's gotten anything from the process, other than a headache and a deep-seated certainty that talking to Potter will only make it worse.


	9. Chapter 9

He counts the minutes it takes for the students to depart. They wave at Draco as they board, seemingly unaware of the restless energy racing through him. He blames his parents for his ability to keep his emotions from his face, but since it's helping him keep some dignity now, he also thanks them for it. The longer and longer he waits to get back to the solid stone of Hogwarts and Potter, hiding somewhere in its depths, the more he can feel his polite mask slipping. Robinson is one of the last students to board the train, and when his smiling eyes meet Draco's as he steps onto the train, Robinson's expression stutters and slides into one of concern. He opens his mouth, but his words are drowned out by the shrill whistle of the train, and a conductor takes his elbow and leads him away before he can speak again.

Minerva has enough sense to not ask questions of Draco as they walk back to the castle. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, keeps his eyes trained on the path before him, and counts his steps. When they reach the front door, Minerva places a light hand on his elbow, her eyes and smile as soft as down. She squeezes her hand just as gently, then leaves him standing in the great doorway, feeling uncertain and gutted in a way he doesn't understand.

He immediately sets to finding Potter. Of course, once Draco's back inside the damn edifice, he can't find the man. He eventually sends Dippy after Potter, walking into the kitchens in a state of irritation just short of being unacceptable in public. She cowers a bit, which makes him feel like an immediate and overwhelming arse, and he spends a solid thirty minutes with the elf, listening to her tell him about the intricacies of organising the Christmas Feast. His eyes start rolling back in his head when she starts discussing the particular varieties of rosemary they're going to use for the geese, and he finally breaks down and interrupts while she's taking a deep, excited breath to ask about Potter.

"Professor Potter?" She frowns, looking extremely concerned. "Professor Potter is not staying for the Christmas Feast. Professor Potter's name is not on the lists that Dippy was given."

"He's still in Hogwarts, though, yes?"

Her eyes go distant in a way that tells Draco she's using a bit of her magic. They sparkle, turning from dirty dishwater to agate, a bright refraction of brown that catches the light from the huge fires and sends it dancing. After a moment, it fades, and Draco has to shake off his surprise at the change.

"Professor Potter is not at Hogwarts, Professor. Dippy would know."

Draco frowns, suddenly equal parts furious and confused. Or maybe not _confused_ as such, but disheartened in a way he doesn't understand and doesn't want to examine while sitting across from a house-elf, especially one who's obsessed with the dozen varieties of rosemary that grow in the Hogwarts greenhouses and making sure that Draco knows the difference between all of them.

He excuses himself poorly, standing up as Dippy breaks into another rousing discussion of herbs—basil this time. As he's about to leave, he turns back to Dippy.

"One more question." He swallows. "Do you know where Professor Potter's quarters are?"

* * *

Potter's rooms are located in the new West Wing. A large space, the new wing contains classrooms specially made for practical spell-casting and transfiguration, as well as a handful of other living quarters, though they all appear uninhabited. Draco took the time to tour the space at the beginning of term, though none of the rooms had appealed to him then or now. But as he stands outside of Potter's quarters, the door indistinguishable from any of the others down the hallway, he finds there's one room in particular he's dying to know more about.

He knocks, fingers rapping sharply against the wood. The sound echoes in the hallway, and he winces, feeling both obvious and stupid. When there's no response, he looks left, then right, and slips his wand from his sleeve. His _Alohomora_ is whispered, and, shockingly, effective. He hears the lock trip open, and Draco places his hand on the door knob, wondering what in the hell he's doing and knowing that, whatever the answer, it won't stop him from taking the next, inevitable, inexcusable step.

The door makes no sound when it swings open. Inside, it's dark. There are two windows on the far wall, but the light filtering through them is dim and isolated to two skewed rectangles on the floor. He stands on the threshold for a long moment. He thinks about calling out, saying Potter's name into the darkness, but he's afraid of both hearing a response and not. He can't tell which would be worse: saying Potter's name and not hearing anything but the quiet reflection of Draco's own voice, or knowing that Potter would sit in this darkness, in this cold, and be content with it.

There's a clatter from down the hallway, and Draco's fight-or-flight response takes over. He steps into the room, shuts the door quickly, but quietly, behind him. His palms press against the door the same way the darkness presses against Draco, and he chokes out a _Lumos_.

The light almost makes it worse. The room is sparse. There's a bed, its red curtains pulled shut, and a small desk between the windows. It's covered in papers, though Draco can't make out what they are from the doorway. A pile of robes lay discarded in the far corner, and though there's a large fireplace opposite the bed, its ashes are cold. There's a pair of chairs and a low table in front of the empty fireplace, and on the table is a tray with a wilting flower, an empty plate, and a small, folded note. Draco knows that if he were to go over to it, to unfold the paper, he'd recognise the handwriting.

Dippy's small kindness seems the only soft thing in the room. Whatever Potter is doing here, behind this door, within these walls, it's not resting. This is not a space where one can rest or relax. This room, meant as a respite, a retreat from the world, is as impersonal and expressionless as the face of a carved statue, one whose eyes follow you as you walk past, cold and unfocused and uncomfortable. It's nothing like the way that Draco's room seems to take the weight from his shoulders as soon as he walks inside. This room feels like a weight added.

There are footsteps and excited voices in the hallway. Muffled by the thick wooden door, Draco can't discern anything other than the tone. He waits for it to fade. Soon, the only sound he can make out is the steady thud of his own heart and the rasp of his breath. He sets his hand on the door knob, opens it and slides back into the hallway, his whispered _Nox_ the only sound in the now empty hallway and Potter's achingly vacant room.

In a haze, he makes his way to his rooms. The fire is crackling merrily when he steps inside, and the contrast between the low glow of firelight dancing around his small but cozy room and the sterility of Potter's makes him shudder. He gets changed out of his robes into something more comfortable—a pair of worn pyjama bottoms, an undershirt, and a thick, too-large jumper over top. It's the end of the day, so his normally tidy hair has started to fall into his face, and he brushes it back from his forehead as he settles into his armchair, feet tucked up underneath him. A moment later, a steaming cup and plate of biscuits appears next to the chair with a sharp crack. Draco leans over, then smiles at the star-shaped marshmallows floating in the hot chocolate. The mug is warm to the touch, and when he takes a careful sip, there's a zing of liquor mixed with the rich chocolate.

"Dippy," he says, hoping she'll hear somehow, "you're a blessing."

As he works his way through the hot chocolate and biscuits, he tries to process Potter's behavior in the last two hours. Draco doesn't know what to think about Potter disappearing on him, especially after their charged interaction. It doesn't feel like something that friends would do, but that moment between them hadn't felt like that, either. Maybe Potter had been unaffected by it, but to Draco, it was charged, heated, full of promise. He actually wanted to talk to the man when he got back to the castle, if only to find out what "friends" meant to Potter, compared to what Draco thinks of the word.

But, no. The Hero of the Wizarding World has bloody run. Or, Draco thinks after fighting back his initial urge to assume the worst, Potter had to leave immediately for his Christmas holidays, and he hunted Draco down as the last thing he wanted to do before leaving for two weeks. Draco wonders at that thought more than the first, drinking his hot chocolate slowly while considering what it could mean if Potter wanted to see Draco and say goodbye.

Maybe they are friends, of a sort, now. But Draco thinks of the way that Potter didn't move from the doorway, the way their boots brushed, the way Potter's eyes lingered on Draco's mouth. As he traces a finger over his bottom lip, the skin warm and sticky from the chocolate, he tries to remember the last time he'd stared at a friend's mouth and fails to think of even one instance.

* * *

It doesn't take long for Draco to pack his bag the next morning. He shrinks his clothing down, makes sure he has enough for the two weeks he'll be at the Manor, then gives his rooms one last, long, wistful look before locking the door and heading to the Apparition point just past Hogwarts's main gates.

Wiltshire is only a few degrees warmer than Scotland, but Draco feels the difference like walking into a sauna. By the time he reaches the twisted gates of the Manor, he's sweating slightly under his warming-charmed robes. Though the Manor Guardian—its wrought iron face looking as pleased as it ever does when it sees him approach—lets him through quickly, the way his shirt sticks to his back and underarms tells him he'll need to change again before dinner or suffer his mother's silent, dignified ire from across the dining room table.

She greets him at the door. He's struck, as always, by her calm, quiet poise. She's statuesque, beautiful and patrician and cold. But then her mouth curls into a warm smile, and he's reminded that this is his mother, and she loves him.

"Draco," she says as she reaches for his hands. "Welcome home."

"It's good to see you, Mother." She draws him inside the Manor, her hand tucked into the curve of his elbow, and though it's warmer inside than out, and the additional heat should only make him sweat more, he shivers. "How've you been?" he asks, hoping she didn't notice his flinch.

"Good. We've been working on restoring the stables. Mrs Parkinson and I have been in discussions about breeding their remaining thestral stock while stabling them here. The Parkinson estate, as you know, was significantly reduced in size after the War, and they've only just managed to recover from that change."

"And thestrals are a wise investment?"

"Parkinson thestrals are, or so I've been told."

Draco nods, lets her continue speaking about the creatures while he makes a mental note to ask Hagrid about it. The man may be a maniac, but he knows his magical creatures, and he already cares for the Hogwarts thestrals. Draco might as well pick his brain for information if his mother is going to start her own herd of the things.

His mother lets him escort her to his rooms, though she's ostensibly showing him there. When she slows, he follows, as if they're dancing down the hallway without music or tempo. Her blue eyes, so like and unlike his own, wrinkle at the corners as she smiles up at him, yet another sign of time passing.

"Please, get comfortable. Luncheon will be at one, and supper at seven. The Manor's ledger is in your father's old office if you'd like to look it over, and I had the house-elves prepare your potions laboratory in the basement for your time here. And there's always, of course, the library, if you'd like to find something to read, or…"

He places his hand over top of hers, and her voice trails off. "I'm sure I will find plenty of things to keep myself occupied, Mother. Don't worry over me, please."

Her hand squeezes on his arm. Though her fingers are strong, her bones feel brittle as they flex beneath his palm. He wonders at the strength of her, at the fragility.

"I'll see you for lunch, then," she says. The _I've missed you_ and _I love you_ are left unsaid. After all, they are Malfoys. This muted affection, told through soft touches and barely curved lips, is how they say those things, as if their love for each other is too bright, too powerful to unshield fully without risking blindness.

He watches her walk down the hall for a moment, then shuts the door to his room and leans against it. The similarity to his posture now and when he broke into Potter's rooms isn't lost on him. After all, being in the Manor feels very much like being in Potter's rooms.

His bedroom is well appointed. The wallpaper is grey silk and covered in a subtle damask pattern. Wainscoting in a dark, shining wood covers the lower-half of the walls, adding to the sheen over everything. His floor is softened by thick Persian rugs with magical creature motifs. Dragons twist and twine their way around the borders, snapping their toothed jaws at phoenixes that just barely slide through, leaving only golden feathers behind. His bed is large and covered in heavily embroidered blankets in matching tones of grey and black. It's a bedroom fit for a king, though a dark one, and Draco has to fight the urge to vomit the longer he stands in it.

He used to love this room. It was his escape from the world, from all of the terrible things he had done and had yet to do. It had a door that locked and a window that opened, and even when the Dark Lord was roaming through the halls of his home like an omniscient shadow, Draco was able to avoid his notice, so much like a touch, here.

But now... All he can think of is the forests of the Ardennes and the crisp, cool scent of pine in the early morning. The open expanse of the moors and the Lake shining in the distance. The enveloping warmth of Hogwarts, wrapped around him like a too-heavy blanket made by careful, loving hands. Looking at the elegant sterility of this place, he sees everything that it lacks and wants to run.

* * *

Dinner is as sharp and stitled as he expects it to be. The house-elves have gone all-out for his welcome home meal. There are silver platters of roast duck and vegetables, a beetroot salad that looks like blood, and fresh rolls with a crust that crackles when he tears off a bite to butter. It's paired with a Chateau Pontet-Canet Pinot Noir that he drinks far too much of. He can sense his mother's disquiet when the house-elves bring up a second bottle and leave it near Draco's plate, but as he pours his fourth glass, he doesn't care.

Conversation doesn't veer far from their day-to-day. His mother asks about teaching, and Draco does his best to make it sound like he didn't nearly die this term, and that his students are all perfect little angels and not the barely-contained hormonal monsters they actually are. She smiles at him once he starts talking about Robinson, and he blames the wine for how fond he sounds when he talks about all of the damaged equipment he's had to throw away.

"And what of Mr Potter?" she finally asks, just as Draco's taking another sip of wine.

It's too expensive for him to dare choke on it, so he swallows awkwardly and holds in the cough that wants to break free. "Mr Potter is fine, Mother."

"I haven't seen him since the trials," she continues, looking out the windows of the dining room. "He seemed very intense."

"He's still very intense."

"You say that as if you're friends."

He scoffs. "Of a sort. Colleagues, certainly."

"How is it working with him, then? You have a… difficult history."

"I could say the same for you, Mother."

She shrugs, somehow making the motion artless and elegant. "I have difficult histories with many people, Draco."

He appreciates the conversational riposte and gives her the point. "Working with him is interesting. He's going to be refereeing some of the Quidditch matches next term."

"Then you'll be seeing a lot of him."

"Yes."

She hums quietly under her breath before taking a sip of her wine. "Do be careful with yourself. I know how you can be."

"And what do you mean by that?"

Her eyes are somehow both sad and proud, and he tries not to quail under that look. "I know how you can be, Draco, when there is something you want and it is just outside of your reach. So, please. You are my son, and I would not have anyone risk your happiness, not even yourself."

He looks away, fighting sudden, overwhelming emotion. "I promise you, Mother, you have no need to worry. My happiness and my working with Potter have nothing to do with each other."

"Of course."

He finishes his wine in one heavy drink, then stands. "Dinner was lovely."

"You won't stay for pudding?"

"No, not tonight." He pushes his chair in, hesitates, then walks to her seat further down the table to press a quick, heartfelt kiss to the top of her head. "I will see you at breakfast. Sleep well, Mother."

"Sleep well, Draco."

* * *

Maybe it's the wine. Maybe it's the lingering anxiety from the day before. Maybe it's because he never sleeps well here anymore. Whatever the reason, Draco dreams.

He's a child, small and dwarfed by the blazing hearth in the main parlour. The carpet beneath him swirls with dragons, and as he reaches for them, they nip at his fingers. Delighted laughter escapes his mouth, and he plays with the creatures, giggling when they snap at his chubby hand.

His parents are seated nearby, though the light from the fire doesn't seem to reach them. Their forms are indistinct and shadowed, and when Draco looks up at them, happy and wanting to share in that happiness, he sees that his father has left at some point and his mother is absorbed in a book. His joy dims a little, the fire flickering behind him, and he stands on unsteady legs and hurries to her side.

"Mama," he says, pulling on her dress, desperate for her attention. "Mama, look. Come play, Mama."

"Not now, Draco. Mother is busy."

"But, Mama…"

She brushes his hand away again and again, no matter how many times he tangles his fingers in the heavy material of her skirts. When he goes looking for his father instead, he can't find him. He shouts for his father until Draco's high-pitched voice scrapes and cracks and the shadows in the hallway reach for him. He stumbles back to the parlour, but he can't find it, and when he wakes up, he's surrounded by darkness and too-heavy blankets, and he shivers and shakes for a long time after that.

* * *

Draco spends most of the week outdoors. Even though it's cold and there's been a light rain refusing to leave since the day after he arrived, he's much more comfortable outside than in. He wanders the Manor grounds, drifting through the dead gardens and evergreen hedges like some kind of dissolute phantom of yore. He's reminded of moors and daring rescues more than once, and the thought makes him smile each time. It gives him a little something to look forward to, that small moment of mirth while surrounded by a place he's come to hate.

He also takes time to run out to Diagon Alley to get last-minute Christmas presents. His gift for his mother was purchased months ago—a locket that he had commissioned for her, subtly etched and dotted through with tiny chips of diamond and sapphire in swirling patterns like constellations—but he still needs to find something for Pansy and Theo. Last year, he'd sent Theo a large floor clock that screeched his name at random intervals throughout the day until Theo had figured out how to turn that particular feature off. Pansy hadn't let Draco hear the end of it, though, and he'd promised something elegant and, more importantly, quiet for their gift this year.

He finds something lovely for her in Twilfitt and Tattings, a gorgeous dress in a black silk that feels like water when he runs it over his fingers. Wherever his fingers brush the fabric, it bursts into blossoms of bright blue and purple light that slowly fade back to black. He thinks of the chaos that Theo could cause with that particular feature and buys it immediately. The store clerk gives him a pointed look when he rings him up, but when Draco asks for a gift receipt—he still remembers Pansy's size, but on the off-chance it's changed, he'd like her to be able to find something for herself—the man's concern fades slightly.

"Thank you, Mr Malfoy," he says, a little hesitancy in his voice before handing over the carefully wrapped package. "Have a lovely day and enjoy your purchase."

Draco grits his teeth, but nods politely back. "Happy Christmas."

There's not much else he needs to do in Diagon, but because he'd rather be anywhere else but the Manor, he wanders. The street is unsurprisingly packed since Christmas is only a few days away. There are more than a few harried men walking briskly up and down along the shop windows, eyes wide as they try to find a last-minute gift for their significant other that won't result in bodily injury. Draco tries to do the mental maths on which ones will be the most successful, based on the shops they duck into and how many bags they leave with. One particular wizard heads into a second-hand shop and comes out with a small box, and Draco wishes him the best of luck—he'll likely need it.

It is cold, though, so he ducks into Flourish and Blotts to warm up. The bookshop smells like old leather and burnt sugar, and Draco takes a deep breath as he wanders through the shelves. His fingers trail on the spines, ticking out a soft beat as they jump from book to book. He pauses in the Potions section before pulling out a new book by a preeminent potioneer from France, Aurelian Tartuffe. Draco's been wondering when it would be released and is pleasantly surprised to find a copy. After flipping through the first chapter, he closes it and tucks it under his arm before heading to the till.

"Just this, sir?" the shopkeeper asks. "We're running a special this week. Buy two, get one free."

Draco glances around, but nothing catches his attention. He's turning back to the shopkeep, ready to decline the offer, when a golden flash catches his eye. On the shelf behind the till is a large brown book, its front cover decorated with heavy gilt. As Draco watches, the swirling tracery of lines shifts and turns into a Snitch, then a Quaffle, then a Bludger. They move across the cover trailing sparks and light before settling into a pattern that turns the round forms into words: _The Creation of Quidditch_.

"What can you tell me about that one?" Draco asks, gesturing towards the book.

The shopkeeper grins. "Oh that? Brand new book releasing in a few months. Better than _Quidditch Through the Ages_ , I'm told. We're taking pre-orders now."

"How much for that copy?"

The man blanches. "It's not for sale, sir."

"How much?"

The man stammers out a number that makes Draco's eyes water, but he's reaching for his purse anyway, sliding the Galleons across the countertop without conscious thought. The shopkeeper's eyes widen, but he takes the money and passes Draco the book.

He cradles it in his hands for a moment, tilting the heavy weight of it so that the gilt sparkles in the shop lights.

"You can pick out another book, sir," the shopkeeper says, though his voice is a little shaky. "If you want."

Draco nods, then takes a book of pictures of Wizarding Britain from a nearby display almost as an afterthought. "Thank you. Have a happy Christmas."

The shopkeeper murmurs something back, but Draco's already got his bag in hand and is hurrying from the store.

The rest of the day, he feels the weight of the book as it bangs against his leg while he walks. He tries not to think about his motivation for buying it. After all, Draco enjoys Quidditch. He's a fan of the sport, supports Puddlemere United during the season, referees for his alma mater. The book looked interesting. It caught his eye. It certainly didn't make him think of a particularly morose, striking man who might be his friend.

No, not at all.

* * *

His mother loves her locket. She isn't effusive with praise when she unwraps it, but the way she lets it hang from her hand, the chain draped over the gentle dip of her fingers as she looks at it, and the way she puts it around her neck almost immediately after unwrapping it tells Draco everything he needs to know about how she feels. The slight shine to her eyes doesn't hurt, either.

Her present for him is a bit more practical, though no less appreciated. The cauldron isn't too large or heavy. It's pewter and robust, but easily moved. It's more tapered at the top than a standard cauldron, and as Draco turns it around in his hands, he realises that it's _his_ design, one he made during his potions mastery. Shocked that his mother had even thought of it, his mind immediately starts whirling with how it will change his brewing practices, especially for more volatile potions.

"Mother," he breathes out, meeting her quietly pleased eyes. "This is wonderful. Thank you."

"Of course." She fingers the locket where it hangs in the hollow of her neck. "I'm so glad you like it."

Draco musters the fortitude to stay inside the Manor all day, and he and his mother spend most of it ensconced in the parlour, the fireplace roaring and the garland spread across the mantlepiece making the room smell faintly of pine. The elves keep a pot of tea warm and filled on Draco's side table, and he gets up a few times to refill his mother's cup. Otherwise, though, they both get lost in books and the soft presence of someone they love occupying the same room.

Dinner is less formal than Draco expects. They have a roast, and rather than eat in the dining room, Narcissa has the elves bring it into the sunroom instead. The table there is much smaller, and Draco's knee bumps into his mother's on more than one occasion while they eat. Each time, she looks up from her plate to smile at him, her locket glinting in the low light. 

Though it's dark outside, the grounds are lit with soft white lights that shift and shimmer with the wind. It makes the world seem caught in a net of stars, and as Draco finishes his meal and watches the way the lights dance outside, he thinks it might be the nicest memory he's had in the Manor since he was a child and played with dragons.

* * *

When Draco slips into his room hours later, a bit tipsy from after-dinner brandy, he's ready to fall into bed immediately. The fireplace is lit and fills the room with a soft glow. For the first time since he's been home, he feels comfortable in his bedroom. He starts undoing his shirt, the buttons sliding easily through their holes, as he moves towards the bed. But his fingers pause in their motion as he takes in the small package lying in the middle of the duvet. He takes a hesitant step forward, then stops.

"Danky!" There's a loud pop, and he looks at the house-elf who's Apparated into the middle of his room. "What's this?"

"It's a present for Master Draco," he says, his thin, reedy voice confused. "From Mr Harry Potter, sir."

Stunned, Draco's mouth moves, though words won't form. He swallows, tries again. "What?"

"Mr Harry Potter, sir. He sent it with a house-elf from Hogwarts for Master Draco."

"I see." Draco glances at the small package on the bed and can't move his eyes from it. "You can go, Danky."

"Does Master Draco need anything else?"

"No. Please, enjoy your Christmas evening."

"Yes, sir."

There's another sharp crack, and then Draco is left alone in his room with Potter's gift.

A _gift_.

He takes a hesitant step towards the bed, then stills. Uncertainty is racing through him. The book he hadn't consciously bought for Potter is sitting on his desk unsent. He'd thought about putting it in the post, then reconsidered it, then reconsidered it _again_ , twisting himself into knots until he'd decided to bring it with him to Hogwarts and hand it to Potter directly. Somehow, that feels like less of a statement than wrapping it and sending it to the man over the Christmas holiday.

But sitting dead-center in Draco's opulent bed is a bundle of brown paper, his name scrawled on it in a messy script. It's small, no bigger than his hand, and though it's pressed a divot into the thick duvet, Draco doesn't think it'll weigh much if he picks it up. If he can pick it up.

Staring at the damn thing isn't going to make Draco feel any better about it, though, so he takes a deep breath and hurries to the bed. His hands aren't shaking when he picks up the package, but his stomach is roiling. Even though he undoes the paper carefully, he still nearly manages to drop the small note tucked in with the present.

 _Had George put this together for you_ , it says in that same messy scrawl. _Thought it might come in handy. - HP_

It looks like a Muggle pocket watch. It's circular and made of gold with a thin line etched around the edge. It fits easily into the palm of Draco's hand, and his fingers wrap around it like it was made to sit there. A clasp on the lid slides open easily, and it springs open on an almost invisible hinge as soon as his thumb presses against it. Inside, there's a picture of a blazing fire. The artistry is so realistic, Draco's convinced he can feel the heat of the flames against his fingers. He can't tell what it's supposed to do, though, other than look pretty, and with a confused sigh, he shuts it.

The room immediately goes black. Once Draco's eyes adjust to the darkness, he realises that the fire isn't even smoking. There are no embers glowing in the grate, no sign that there was a fire there at all. Hesitantly, he opens the clasp again, and as soon as the fire within is unveiled, the fireplace blazes back to bright, glowing light.

He picks up the note again, turns it over. There's more writing there, explaining how the "De-Extinguisher" works. Draco places his forefinger along the outer edge and closes it. This time, the fire stays lit.

He isn't sure what to think. Potter's sent him a magical object, one clearly custom-made, that douses flames. It makes Draco think of Fiendfyre and the Room of Requirement, and he wonders if this small, golden thing would be able to put out even those flames, still burning nearly a decade after Vince lit them. He turns it over, looks at the delicate Hogwarts crest carved into the back, and thinks it might. The idea makes him shiver.

Uncertain of where to put it, he sets it next to the Quidditch book on his desk. The gold of the De-Extinguisher matches the gilt on the cover, and as the fire casts soft, warm light over both of them, Draco feels something in his chest ache at the way they complement each other.

He gets ready for bed, distracted and disquieted. Once he lays down, he stares at the ceiling, trying to puzzle out whatever message Potter's trying to send with his gift. There's certainly a practical aspect to it. If Draco had had something like the De-Extinguisher when Dankworth's cauldron burst into flames, he would've likely saved the boy a trip to the Hospital Wing. And with Robinson's tendency towards chaos, having a magical object that can immediately put out any fire in Draco's classroom is something that will make him that much more comfortable leaving the boy around open flames.

Thinking back on that day with Dankworth and Potter's anger, Draco wonders if this is a way for Potter to apologise. Some kind of backwards, Gryffindor-ish manner of telling Draco that Potter is sorry for yelling at him, for not understanding. Or maybe it's something less than that, just a thoughtful gift from a new friend. It's as confusing as Potter's flight from Hogwarts, as indefinitive of a statement as his immediate absence after asking Draco if they were friends.

The problem is that it _feels_ like an apology rather than a gift, though Draco hates to guess at Potter's motivations with something as indistinct as his gut. Potter didn't have to send something useful and beautiful, didn't have to do it in such a surreptitious way. Hell, he didn't have to send anything at all, considering they'd only maybe agreed to friendship a week ago.

Draco scrubs a hand over his face, frustrated and far from sleep. He's getting tired of tossing and turning over Potter, both literally and figuratively. But Draco doesn't know what to do with this new _thing_ between them. He understands hating Potter, understands wanting to be better than him. He maybe even understands desiring the man, though he hates to admit it while in his childhood bedroom, where the thought of desiring a man, much less Harry fucking Potter, would've put him into cold sweats fifteen years earlier.

He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, rubs them until he sees stars behind his eyelids. When he pulls them away, he stares at the Dark Mark smeared across his forearm and wonders whether Potter's apology would extend to that also, or if Draco should just fucking stop _thinking_ and go to sleep.

Which is what he does.

Eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for posting so late in the day! Hope you enjoy it, though.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More than halfway through!

Hogwarts without its students always reminds Draco of the last days of the War. It's too quiet, too uneasy, and while he loves the place, the day before spring term starts is always deeply unsettling to him. It's as if the castle knows that it's empty, but that it soon won't be, and its anxious anticipation is infectious.

It certainly has nothing to do with Potter's continued absence, even though professors are expected to arrive early. They've got classrooms and lesson plans to prepare, after all. Books to select and vet. There are responsibilities to teaching at Hogwarts, and professors need time to get things in order, especially after an extended break. Draco shouldn't be surprised that someone new to education like Potter wouldn't be aware of those expectations, but he's always been one to know the rules, even if he doesn't follow them. Draco expected better, is all.

It's snowing outside, and the dungeons are colder than usual, which is saying something. Even with a fire roaring, the potions classroom is chilly, and Draco's warming spells only just manage to take the edge off. He clatters around the room, half-heartedly checking his supplies and equipment. But this is far from his first year teaching, and he'd prepared everything before he left for Christmas, and now, there's nothing here that really needs to be done. He knows what he's doing as he checks a cauldron for damage a third time.

The cauldron is fine. It's Draco that's cracked.

There's a quiet knock at the door, and Draco looks up to find Minerva leaning in through the doorframe.

"Draco," she says with a smile. "Welcome back."

He sets the cauldron aside, then grabs the next lined up on the table. "Headmistress."

"How was Christmas?"

"Lovely. Mother and I had a quiet night at home."

"That sounds wonderful." She smiles again. "Nothing else worth mentioning?"

He sets the cauldron down and frowns. "Are you here to meddle?"

"I'm not the one that meddles, young man."

"I had to learn it from someone." He smiles, the low hum of uneasiness quieting in her presence. "How was your holiday, Minerva?"

"Very relaxing, Draco. Thank you for asking." She walks into the room. "Are you ready for the term?"

"As ready as I can be, I expect. You would know better than most that these children are a menace."

"You love them."

"I'd never."

She laughs, then sits. "And what about your side project?"

"You said you weren't meddling."

"And?"

He shoots her a mild glare, just enough heat to singe but not seriously burn. "It's fine, Minerva. Let it be."

"And two weeks ago?"

"Autumn term ended."

"Draco."

"Minerva."

"You're acting like a child."

"There's nothing to talk about," he says with sudden ire. "I didn't want to talk about it before, and I don't want to talk about it now."

"Draco."

"No." He presses his hands to the table, watches his knuckles turn white. "I don't… Whatever is going on, Minerva, I don't understand it, and I can't talk about something I don't understand."

Her hand is soft and cool over top of his. "It's all right, young man. I just want to help."

Anger bleeds from him in a rush, and he's glad he's leaning against the table so he doesn't collapse. "Thank you."

"You'll come to me, if you need something?"

"Of course."

"Good." She squeezes his hand. "And as much fun as this conversation has been so far—I do love it when you shout at me—I did come down here for a reason. There's a Hogsmeade trip coming up in a few weeks, and while Dennis was supposed to chaperone, he's had to withdraw. I'd like you to take his place."

"I… What?"

She laughs. "I trust you to keep the students in line, and"—she squeezes his hand again—"you're the first professor I've found since Dennis dropped out."

"Minerva," he says, voice strained. "If the parents hear about this—"

"Then they will know that a well-respected member of our staff took time out of his weekend to accompany their children to Hogsmeade in order to keep them safe and out of trouble."

"And if I need protection from the children?"

"You know a Body-Bind." She pats his hand and steps away, smiling fondly. "You'll be fine. I will see you at dinner."

As she steps back into the hallway, Draco stuffs his hands into his pockets, uncertain what to do with the warmth left by her touch. His fingers touch cold metal, and though he doesn't take it out, he traces the edges of Potter's De-Extinguisher with his thumb thoughtfully. He's taken to carrying it around with him, even though he's not used it since that first night. There hasn't been any need for it, not yet, but even knowing that, he still wants the weight of it in his pocket, as simple and insubstantial as the toe of someone else's boot brushing against his own.

He pulls his hand from his pocket and turns back to the cauldrons. The rest of his inspections are cursory at best, and he's thankful that he's already done this and is only looking for a way to stay busy until dinner, where he'll inevitably see Potter again. He thinks he shouldn't dread it as much as he is, but the way his palms sweat against pewter is enough for him to know that it'll be awkward, no matter when or where their reunion occurs.

There's a knock on the classroom door, and Draco turns from the last of the cauldrons to find Longbottom leaning in the doorway. "You know," he says, smiling softly, "I always expected to get roses when we were seeing each other, not after."

"They're rather trite, don't you think?"

"Still would've been nice." Longbottom walks into the room, taking in the overly-organized worktops. "How were the hols?"

"Very nice, thank you. And yours?"

His shrug seems too easy. "Fine. Spent it with the Weasley-Grangers, actually."

"Ah."

"Indeed. Their eldest is going to be here in a few years. She had a _lot_ of questions."

"Granger's child, asking questions? I'd never have thought it possible."

Longbottom laughs and sits on a stool at the table where Draco's standing. He leans back, elbow resting on the table, nearly touching one of the cauldrons there. "Harry was there, too."

"Is it a House trait?"

Longbottom frowns, caught off guard by the question. "What?"

"Putting your nose in another's business."

Longbottom chuckles. "Someone else got to you before me, then?"

Sighing, Draco rests his back against the worktable. "Just come out and say it, Longbottom. I honestly don't have the energy for this today."

"Are you and Harry…?"

Draco waits for Longbottom to finish his sentence, then shakes his head when he realises it's not going to happen. "Potter and I are many things. We're both professors. We both enjoy Quidditch. As far as I'm aware, we even have the same house-elf admirer."

"You know that's not what I'm asking."

"And you know I'm not going to answer the question you so eloquently failed to ask."

"So there _is_ something going on between the two of you."

"We're _friends_ , Longbottom. It's not a revelation."

Based on the upward trajectory of Longbottom's eyebrows, it is. "Friends _is_ a big deal. I've seen the scars, Malfoy."

"Right."

The conversation stills, both of them remembering how and why Longbottom knows what's beneath Draco's clothes. It's not exactly embarrassing, but it leaves Draco's cheeks flushed and his eyes skating away.

"Anyway," Longbottom says, finally standing. "Harry seemed disappointed. From what I could get out of him, he sent a present off but never heard back from the recipient. Thought you might find that enlightening."

"Thank you. Consider me enlightened. Enjoy the rose, Longbottom."

"I intend to. But don't think this won't come up again. There's something going on."

"I will pummel you if you don't leave my classroom."

Longbottom laughs. "See you later, Malfoy."

As Longbottom leaves, disappearing in the same direction Minerva had left earlier, Draco gives up on the pretense that he can hide in the dungeons until forced to see Potter by circumstance, rather than desire. He puts the cauldrons away brusquely, then extinguishes the lamps with a quickly cast _Nox_. The classroom door closes softly, and as he locks it, he heads off, wondering where in the hell Potter might be hiding out today.

* * *

Draco's first stop is the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. He knows it's a long shot—as far as Draco's been able to tell, Potter is rarely in his classroom outside of class times— but there is actual preparatory work that Potter may need to do for the first day of classes, and his office is nearby, so it's a reasonable place to go. When Draco knocks on the door and pushes it open, the room is, unsurprisingly, empty. He tries his best to not feel disappointment and fails. Now that he's decided that he's going to find the man, Draco finds that he desperately wants to see Potter. It's been two weeks, and Draco's been thinking about their last interaction every minute since it happened. Now, all he wants is the solidity of Potter's body before him, his eyes green and unreadable, but better than the memory of possible heat and an incomprehensible question.

But the classroom is empty. The desks are lined up in neat rows, chairs pushed in. Though there are cages and glass enclosures on top of the low bookshelves encircling the room, they're empty. If Potter is teaching anything about dark creatures, they're not here yet, or they're out in the lake, galavanting about with Hagrid and the kelpies.

The cabinet in the back corner of the classroom, the one the boggart had been inside, is closed. He doesn't know what draws him towards it, but Draco finds his feet moving across the classroom floor until he's stood in front of the dark wooden doors. His hand doesn't shake when it reaches for the door pull, but it takes him a lungful of breath to gather the courage to open it.

There are a few empty hangers along the top, dust gathered in the corners, and nothing else. Draco laughs at himself and the tight fist of fear in his chest. His hand falls away, and as he takes in the emptiness within, he shakes his head, embarrassed and saddened that he won't have a chance to look into the face of his fear.

The empty cabinet before him, he now understands what Potter was doing that day. It doesn't necessarily make any more sense now than it did then, but his heart knows what Potter was doing in a way he hadn't at the time. And though his father is gone, even the facsimile of him apparently banished, Draco feels a hint of regret that he won't get to see Lucius after all.

* * *

When Draco sticks his head into the teacher's lounge, a handful of heads rise in response. Creevey and Longbottom are in the corner, some kind of Muggle device on the table between them. Though Longbottom gives Draco a slightly-fond smile in greeting, Creevey glares, then goes back to whatever conversation Draco's entrance interrupted.

Trelawney and Babbling, the Study of Ancient Runes professor, are seated before the fire, and when Trelawney finishes dragging her bottle-glass gaze from Draco's toes to his face as he steps into the room, she scowls.

"I knew this weather was a bad omen," she says darkly, her voice in sharp contrast to the bright sunlight coming in from outside. "Bathsheda, I will see myself out. Pay attention to the winds from the north today. They bring ill-tidings."

"They bring _snow,_ Sybil," she says with a sigh. Trelawney slinks her way past Draco with an air of disgust and heavy perfume, and Babbling gives Draco a commiserating smile. "Apologies, Draco. She's a bit stuck in her ways."

"It comes with advanced age," he says without much heat. "I apologise for interrupting."

"She was about to leave anyway. Something about Libra ascending."

"Ah, of course." He shifts awkwardly, uncertain if he should take a seat and engage in a conversation he has no interest in or just ask if Potter's around.

"Mr Potter is in his quarters," Babbling says with one side of her mouth quirked up. "He just left a few minutes ago."

Draco's face heats, but he nods as gracefully as he can. "Thank you."

"Good luck, young man," Babbling says before turning back to the fire, a newspaper appearing from the side table next to her.

Leaving before anyone else can offer him encouragement or, Merlin forbid, advice, Draco hurries towards Potter's quarters, slightly relieved that he had Dippy show him where they were before leaving at Christmas so he doesn't have to hunt her down and face another person asking questions.

The West Wing is unbearably empty when Draco walks down its hallways. His footsteps make a staccato beat against the stone floors, but without the echoed chorus of children's voices as melody, it's discordant and unsettling. But Potter should be in his quarters, and Draco can have this out and over with.

Whatever _this_ is.

He stops before Potter's door, then hesitates. The certainty he'd felt only moments earlier, the need to see and talk to the man, has turned into blood-chilling fear. Mouth painfully dry, hands disgustingly wet, Draco raises his fist to knock on the door, then holds it there for a long, awful moment.

"You can knock, you know," Potter's voice says through the door. Draco dies a bit inside. "Lurking doesn't suit you."

When Potter opens the door, Draco's hand is still raised, and for a moment, he considers punching the prat since he's already in position. But Potter is grinning, his green eyes sparkling like light through forest leaves, and Draco feels all the fight leave him in a rush of attraction he's going to desperately pretend he doesn't feel.

"Welcome back to Hogwarts, Professor," he says instead, pushing his way past a laughing Potter. "I'm afraid I missed you before you left at the end of term."

Potter's laughter dissipates, disappears. "Ah. Yes."

"I see that conversation hasn't gotten any easier for you since December."

"Malfoy, I—"

"It's fine. No reason to hold onto any animosity between _friends_ , right?"

Potter flinches at the word. "About that…"

"Yes, about that."

"I…" Potter drags a hand through his hair, then moves to the chairs before the fire. "Do you want a drink?"

"Do I need one?"

"I don't know, but I do." Potter opens a cabinet that Draco missed when he snuck in earlier and pulls out a bottle of Ogden's and two glasses. He falls into one of the chairs, then sets the whiskey and glasses on the low table before pouring out a healthy two fingers. Eyebrow raised, he looks to Draco, who nods. As Potter fills the second glass, Draco makes his way hesitantly towards the other chair, then sits, hands perched on his knees, back straight.

"This is why I need a drink," Potter says before taking one. "Christ, Malfoy, can you relax a little?"

"Any time I slouch, my mother somehow knows, and since I do not want to deal with her lecturing me after whatever this conversation is going to be, I'll sit how I like."

Potter snorts. "I've caught you slouching plenty of times."

"If I'm in my quarters, it doesn't count."

"I wasn't aware there were rules to how you sit."

Draco takes a sip of whiskey. "That's because you lack breeding."

"You are insufferable, you know that, right?" Potter's smiling as he says it, so Draco figures he's off the hook for that one.

"Would you like to tell me whatever it is that you needed fortification for?" Draco says, leaning back in his chair a little, the stiffness of his muscles easing with the conversation and drink.

Potter cradles his glass in his hands, eyes shifting to the fireplace. After taking a deep breath, he glances at Draco, then away again. "I like you, Malfoy."

It's as if Potter has admitted that he's dying, or that he murders and eats babies as a hobby. His voice is worn and upset, as if the admission that he finds Draco less than awful is some terrible secret. As Draco works to process not only Potter's words, but the way he's said them, Potter takes another heavy drink of whiskey.

"I know, it's ridiculous." He shakes his head. "I mean, I _hated_ you. For my entire life, I've hated you."

It's like a knife in Draco's gut, even though it's a fact he's known just as long as Potter has. "I'm aware."

"I came here expecting you to be just as awful as you were when we were kids, maybe worse. But you're…" Potter shakes his head again and finally looks at Draco. "You're not the same person you were then. I don't… You were supposed to be like your father or Snape or some awful combination of the two. And, instead, you're… _nice_."

"I don't know if I should be offended or complimented."

"Maybe both," Potter says with a wry smile. "I don't think I'm saying this right."

"There's that intelligence again."

"See? I should want to hit you for saying shit like that, but, instead, it's funny. _You're_ funny. When the hell did that happen?"

"You're doing a very good job of making _me_ want to hit _you_ right now, Potter. Would you get to the point?"

"The point is"—his expression is so earnest and open, Draco feels it in the pit of his stomach—"that I'm sorry I've been… Well, I'm sorry. I'm glad… that we're becoming friends. That we _are_ friends."

"Well," Draco says before taking a quick drink, "if it makes you feel any better, you're not so awful yourself."

"Did that hurt?"

"Only a little."

They smile at each other, the silence stretching into a quiet moment of shared amusement. Draco feels something soft and stupid growing in his chest, and he quickly drowns it with whiskey.

"I have something for you," he says as his throat burns. "A present, I guess."

"Is it a book?" Potter starts laughing when Draco glares at him. "What? Everything you've given me so far has been a book. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were Hermione in disguise."

"If you don't want it…"

"No." Potter's grinning. "No, if you got me something, I'd… Yeah."

"And it _is_ a book," Draco says with a frown. "Not nearly as flashy as a magical object, but I think you'll like it anyway."

Potter leans forward a bit, eyes wide and expectant. "Did you like it? The De-Extinguisher?"

"It'll be very useful, I think." Draco can feel the weight of it resting against his thigh, but refrains from touching it. "Thank you. It was very thoughtful."

Potter glows, leaning back in his chair, whiskey held near his chest as he smiles into the fire. He's so relaxed and easy, the simple line of his body a tranquil expanse of cloth-covered muscle and bone that Draco aches to know. He feels like a pale moon drawn to Potter's dark earth, orbiting closer and closer until he can't do anything but give into gravity and disaster.

Suddenly feeling remarkably Gothic, Draco sets his glass of whiskey in his lap, uncertain what to do now. He's had the conversation he wanted to have, though it's not made him feel any better about the current situation. Other than banal small talk, he can't think of what to say to Potter. He's still learning how to be kind to the man, much less _friendly_. What does one say to their former enemy, when their conversations will inevitably fall onto the unsteady ground of their shared past? 

The room is quickly emptying of oxygen, and Draco wonders if passing out in someone else's quarters is a socially acceptable way to avoid chit-chat.

"I can hear you thinking from over here," Potter says, startling Draco enough that his whiskey sloshes in the glass. "You all right?"

"Just processing," he says honestly before setting his glass down on the low table. "It's a lot to absorb."

"Friendship?"

"Friendship with you. For Merlin's sake, we've drawn each other's blood." Draco's hand travels to his chest and the _Sectumsempra_ scars hidden beneath his shirt, and Potter mirrors him, hand rising to the slight bend in his nose. "It's… weird. Complicated."

"Says the wizard."

"Magic makes sense."

"Maybe this is a bit of magic. Like a Time-Turner or something."

"Maybe." Draco resists the urge to run his fingers through his hair. "What'll Weasley and Granger think of it?"

Potter's smile, present for the whole conversation, finally fades. His free hand goes to his left leg, rubbing idly at the thigh. "I don't know."

Draco isn't sure what question he wants to ask next, though he wants to push the point. But as Potter's hand lingers on his left leg, Draco makes the mature decision to not pry, though it feels a bit like he's going to lose his mind if he doesn't eventually find out. But, if he and Potter are friends now, there'll be time later. The idea makes his chest ache.

"How was Christmas?" Draco asks instead, figuring a change of subject might ease the weight building in his lungs.

"It was Christmas."

That response and Potter's slight frown bode well. "Anything exciting?"

"Well, George blew up a gnome hole, which was rather exciting until the gnomes started pouring out all over the lawn. I thought Molly was going to have a stroke."

"Good lord."

"Right?" Potter's grin flashes back to life for a brief moment. "It was fantastic, until the biting started."

Draco chuckles. "Isn't that always how it happens?"

"I dunno, biting isn't always awful."

Draco laughs again, but it sounds choked even to him. He takes an overly large swallow of whiskey, hoping it'll either wash away the knot in his throat or help him get inebriated enough to not care.

"I spent some time flying, too." Potter glances at Draco, then away. "It didn't go as well as our practices, but Ron was shit at helping me with the stretches."

"Perhaps he didn't want to hurt you."

"Are you implying you did?"

Draco laughs. "I wasn't afraid of it, no." Honestly, he'd been too distracted to think about making Potter's injury worse, except in a vague lust-clouded way. "And if you want the hip to loosen up, there needs to be some burn."

"Exactly what I said, but he didn't push." Potter rubs his leg again, then finishes his glass. "It's a bit of a bastard."

"It'll get better."

"Eh, we'll see."

Draco sighs. "C'mon, then. Sitting isn't going to make it less stiff." Standing, he looks down at Potter's confused face. "We're going for a walk, Potter. Get your arse up."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" He rubs at his thigh again, wincing a little. "It doesn't do well in the cold."

"Then we'll get it warmed up. Or would you rather stay here, getting drunk by yourself?"

Potter looks like he's considering it and, for a moment, Draco thinks Potter will say he would, and this whole "friendship" thing with Draco was an ill-considered folly, and would Draco kindly get the fuck out of his quarters? But, instead, he lets out a heavy sigh and stands, wincing slightly as his weight settles on his left leg. "You're leading this charge, Malfoy. Where are we off to?"

With snow covering the grounds in a heavy layer of white and still falling outside, Draco figures that a walk around outside is out. Thinking quickly, he grins. "How do you feel about going exploring?"

"Exploring. Are you twelve?"

"When was the last time you tried to get lost in the castle, Potter? We're young yet. Let's live a little."

Potter's laugh is a quiet thing, but he follows after Draco easily, locking the door behind them.

Hogwarts has a wonderful and befuddling way of turning itself inside out on the regular. The classroom halls stay relatively unchanged, but the rest of the castle gets restless, and even though Draco has wandered these halls for years, he still manages to find his feet treading unfamiliar flagstones more often than not. He and Potter don't speak as they walk, which has Draco feeling both grateful and anxious. He's not used to quiet companionship with Potter. Usually, their interactions are defined by banter or barbs, sometimes both.

But as they meander through the hallways, peering into dusty storage rooms and quietly discussing what the broken down things inside might have once been, Draco finds the moments of silence between them comforting. Potter is a steady warmth along his side, though they don't stand close together. Like a warming charm, his presence leaves Draco's skin pleasantly heated beneath his clothes. It's as if he's just woken up after a good night's sleep, body cradled in the achingly soft sheets and pressed down on by the weight of his covers, that perfect space of comfort that he never wants to leave.

But just like he has to get out of bed in the mornings, no matter how much he doesn't want to, his stomach starts complaining that whiskey does not serve as a replacement for a meal, and his quickly cast _Tempus_ charm reveals it's nearly dinner.

"You think Dippy'll have something special for us?" Potter asks, half of his mouth lifted in a smile. "I've missed her cooking."

"Hopefully." Draco feels a twinge of guilt. "I should go say hello before heading to the Great Hall. I forgot to drop by when I arrived."

"You are so very different than I remember." Potter's expression shifts into a confused softness that Draco can't bear to look at for long. "I'll see you at dinner, then?"

"I'll be up shortly."

"Bye, Malfoy. This was… nice." Potter waves awkwardly as he turns to leave, then stuffs his hand in his pocket as if hiding it away will make the moment disappear. Draco holds back a grin, then heads to the kitchens.

Since dinner is about to be served, it's hot and chaotic when he steps inside. Elves are scurrying about everywhere, platters of food waiting to be Apparated upstairs, some courses still coming out of ovens or pots bubbling on the hobs encircling the room. The heat is oppressive, and Draco wonders, not for the first time since joining the staff, if there might not be a better way of doing this than having a hundred magical creatures scurrying about doing back-breaking labor for the school's benefit.

There's a joyful cry from the far corner of the room, and then Dippy pops in front of Draco, her brown eyes as wide as her smile. "Professor! Welcome back to Hogwarts!"

"Hullo, Dippy." He can't hold his answering smile back. "I wanted to let you know I'd returned. I hope you had a good Christmas."

"Christmas was very good. Dippy used the Spice Island rosemary, and the Headmistress said it was the best goose she'd ever had." She brightens with the remembered praise. "Dippy has never been so happy."

"That's wonderful. I'm sorry to have missed it."

She bounces on her feet, hands waving excitedly. "Dippy will make it again for Professor! Professor will have Dippy's best goose, and Professor will love it."

"Oh, please don't go to any trouble on my account." Draco flushes. "I'm sure you're already quite busy."

She ducks her head bashfully. "Dippy is never too busy for Professor."

"Well, it certainly doesn't look that way right now." When she opens her mouth to protest, he holds up a restraining hand, smiling broadly. "I'll leave you to dinner. I just wanted to come and say hello, and thank you, again."

"Good evening, Professor." She smiles at him, then hurries back to the meal preparation. As serving platters start to disappear, Draco hurries from the kitchen. His shirt sticks to his back as he makes his way to the Great Hall, but he thinks the mild discomfort is well worth it for the smile on Dippy's face.

Merlin, when did he start feeling so damned fond of a house-elf?

There's a sprig of rosemary dotted with dark blue flowers on his plate when his food arrives, and as he eats, he sets it aside, tucking it into his pocket next to the De-Extinguisher and wondering about gifts and friendships, and how the shape and feel of them can be so different, yet the same.

* * *

Like a great beast lumbering back to wakefulness after hibernation, Hogwarts goes from silent hallways to roaring noise in the span of a few hours. Draco's first day of classes is effectively lost to the enthusiasm of young children seeing their friends after a not-so-long break, all of them distracted and filled with an energy that leaves him exhausted by the end of the day.

Perhaps most interestingly, though, is how Robinson and Routledge sit at the same table, their stools pushed perhaps a bit too close together, each of them glancing at the other when their partner isn't looking. It makes Draco want to smile, but considering the chaos the two of them will undoubtedly unleash once they get past the early stages of teenage courtship, he manages to hold it back. He does catch their knees brushing under the table at least once, though, and he has to roll his eyes at the dance of fifteen-year-olds in lust.

But Robinson doesn't knock anything over, and there aren't any opportunities to use the De-Extinguisher, so Draco chalks up the day as a win. He readies his classroom for the next day's lessons and demonstrations, then ducks into his room to grab _The Creation of Quidditch_ from his dresser. He hasn't wrapped it yet, and as he stares at the tome, pondering if he should or shouldn't, he notices a stain on the cuff of his robes, and a darker one down the front. With a groan, he pulls it off, looking down at the unimpressive shirt and trousers he'd thrown on that morning, and starts taking them off as well. He doesn't need to look his best, but honestly, something a bit more presentable than white cotton and black trousers is required.

He settles on a silvery-grey shirt and tight-fighting trousers in a soft charcoal. Forgoing formal robes, he finds the silk-lined cloak and clasps it around his neck, leaving one side thrown over his shoulder to let the shifting colors within flash in bright contrast to his outfit. He casts a spell to wrap the book in silver and green paper, laughing to himself at the idea of Potter opening such a Slytherin-coloured gift, and tucks it under his arm. Straightening his cuffs one last time before leaving, he heads towards the teacher's lounge, figuring Potter might be resting there after the first day back.

He's nearly there when he hears Potter's voice, echoing around the corner. A smile finds its way to Draco's lips, and as he hurries, he catches Dennis Creevey's voice as well, though it's raised in anger.

"I can't believe you, Harry," he says, the words bitten out. "Spending time with a Death Eater? I expected better from you, of all people."

"Dennis, he's not that bad, honestly."

"His people killed my brother."

A heavy sigh. "I know."

"And you're carrying on with him like it's nothing, like what he did was nothing."

"Malfoy didn't—"

"It doesn't matter what he did or didn't do. He's a Death Eater. He should be in Azkaban. He should be dead."

"Dennis."

"Why are you defending him?"

"I'm not."

"It sure sounds like you are."

"You need to calm down." Footsteps, then silence. "I know it's hard. To be reminded of what happened."

"You don't understand."

"I lost people, too," and now Potter's sounding angry, hurt. "He was my friend."

"He was my _brother_." Creevey's voice breaks on the word, and Draco takes a step back as if struck. "And he's dead, and Malfoy… Colin should be here instead."

Draco can't move, his ears ringing.

"I know, Dennis," Potter says softly. "I'm sorry. I'll…"

"Don't make the same mistake that everyone else seems to have and think he's changed. He's still got the Mark."

"Okay, Dennis. Let's get you into the lounge, yeah? There's tea in there, it might help."

"Yeah." Creevey sounds tired, worn-down. His voice fades as a door opens, then closes, leaving Draco alone in the hallway.

Blood thundering in his ears, Draco doesn't hear it open again, and when Potter walks out from around the corner, his green eyes widen in shock.

"Malfoy."

"Potter." Draco swallows, tries to breathe. "I was looking for you."

"I…"

Draco takes a step forward and extends the garishly-wrapped present. The silver and green are stark against his bloodless fingers. "This is… Take it. Please."

Potter grabs it, and Draco pulls away as if burnt. Unable to meet Potter's eyes, Draco turns on his heel and starts back towards his chambers.

"Draco, wait!" Potter's voice rings out down the hallway, but it does nothing to stop Draco's forward motion. Head down, he walks blindly ahead. There's the loud clatter of shoes on stone, and then Potter's hand wraps around his wrist is like a brand. Draco's forced to stop and turn around, though he can't bear the other man's touch for long. He yanks his hand free and stares into knowing green, hating every second of it.

"What?" He's so damned tired.

"I didn't… What did you hear?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, it bloody does."

"Well. Then, I heard enough."

"It's not true."

"Isn't it?"

"No." Potter's face hardens at whatever expression Draco makes. " _No_."

"He's not wrong. I still have the Mark."

Uncertain why he's doing it, Draco's fingers reach for his cuff, and he slowly rolls the sleeve back. Though his eyes are locked on his forearm and the twisted stain slowly being revealed, he knows that Potter is looking, too. Learning.

He trails a finger over the skull and snake. Though it's faded over time, the lines are still clear enough that their shape is unmistakable. "This is what I am," he chokes out. "Best not forget it."

Draco turns again, shoving his sleeve back over his forearm and simultaneously hoping that Potter will do or say something and that he won't. When he reaches the end of the hallway and there aren't any following footsteps or shouts, Draco looks over his shoulder. Potter's head is bowed, his body a stiff, unmoving line, and everything about his posture makes Draco want to scream or rage or do _something_ to ease the pain growing in his chest.

Instead, he hurries back down the stairs to the dungeons, locks his door, crawls fully-dressed into bed, and stays there until morning.


	11. Chapter 11

When Draco wakes up, there's a small tray with breakfast on his desk. Fiercely grateful for Dippy, he eats in the privacy of his rooms, unable to bear the thought of going to the Great Hall and sitting where either Potter or Creevey could see him. It's nothing fancy, just a bit of fruit salad, some yogurt, and warm buttered bread, but it eases the ache in his chest a bit, this simple offering of comfort. He cleans his plate, drinks a cup of tea, then puts on his plainest robes before heading to the potions classroom.

He doesn't have any classes until third period, but he doesn't want to be anywhere else. The potions classroom is out of the way and rarely attended by anyone other than students. Even the NEWT and OWL students don't spend much time here, preferring the potions workrooms located further down the hall to practise for their exams. Draco can hide out here without worry, and as he shuts the door behind him, it lets him breathe easier.

The room is ready for his fourth year class, all of the supplies for the Ageing Potion they're starting today laid out along the edges of the room. With no further preparations to be made, he goes into his private workroom, takes out the cauldron his mother gifted him, and starts working on his own variation of the potion. He takes out a portion of the ingredients for it, then adds dried _Sclerophyrs regularis_ legs and wild boar hairs. His hope is that by adjusting both the ingredients and the brewing method, he'll be able to reverse the potion, creating a De-Ageing Potion instead. It hasn't worked so far, but it's an intensive brew, and it keeps his mind off of Creevey's shaking voice and Potter's response.

Or at least it does until he gets to the first of four thirty-minute simmers. As he watches the surface of the potion bubble—much more evenly than his normal cauldron, and he takes pride in the design and the craftsmanship that went into its construction—he can't help but relive that awful moment and Potter's hunched shoulders after.

Pushing away from his work table, he sets a timer charm and starts pacing in his classroom. It's an anxious habit he hasn't been able to shake since picking it up his sixth year. It helps calm his mind, though. Repetition has always brought him solace. And since he needs that more than ever right now, he does his best to wear a divot into the stone floor of the classroom.

He remembers Colin Creevey. Though Draco had never talked to the kid—at least he doesn't remember speaking with him—he'd seen Creevey the Elder trailing after Potter, camera flashing, dishwater brown hair flopping about in his enthusiasm to capture Potter from every angle. Draco can respect that desire in retrospect, but at the time, he'd been annoyed by the continual hero worship.

And though he knows that Creevey died at the Battle of Hogwarts—like so many of their classmates, like Vince—Draco doesn't remember seeing him fall or his body after. He's certain it would've been laid out in the Great Hall like the others, but they'd been covered with white cloths, reduced to piled silhouettes on the ground, and he'd been too numb to look closer anyway.

He stills, stops. Of course Dennis would have reason to hate Draco. Like all of them, he's trapped in time, mourning those lost in the War. Draco knows that feeling of extended grief. He refuses to go anywhere near where the Room of Requirement used to be, doesn't like to be too close to flames, won't try to repair anything more complicated than a dented cauldron. They all have scars, especially the kind that don't show on skin. This is simply the shape and texture that Dennis's have taken. It's not about Draco, not really. He's only a knife, shaped the same as the one that left the wound.

But Potter… His response to Creevey, his response to Draco… It speaks volumes more than the man ever does.

Draco's timer charm goes off, and he remembers another timer, breaking something fragile, a crystal on the edge of formation, only seeds in solution.

He stirs his potion again. Counter-clockwise four times, then clockwise once. Wait two minutes. Stir again, clockwise four times, counter-clockwise once. Lower heat, let simmer for thirty minutes.

When he leaves his workroom almost two hours later, theoretical De-Ageing potion distilling quietly behind him, he's startled to find Laurel Butrum and Artica Selwyn sitting at a worktable in the front of the room, their bags resting on the floor next to them. Glancing at the permanent _Tempus_ charm in the corner of the room, he frowns.

"You're a half-hour early for class," he says, turning back to the girls.

"We know," Butrum says. "We wanted to talk to you."

"What about?"

"Class stuff," Selwyn says, glancing at Butrum of confirmation. "Yeah, class stuff."

Puzzled by teenage girls as much as he ever is, Draco grabs a stool and sits. "Well, you've caught me at a good time. I've nothing better to do than entertain you two before class." He frowns. "Speaking of which, shouldn't you be in History of Magic?"

"Professor Binns fell asleep."

"Ghosts can't sleep, Artica. I keep telling you that."

"He sure looked like he was sleeping."

"Sometimes he pretends," Draco says, interrupting what appears to be a long standing argument between the two girls. "What 'class stuff' did you wish to discuss?"

They open their mouths in unison, then slam them shut before looking at each other in a clear panic. Slytherins in his day and age were much better at subterfuge. He sighs.

"You don't have any 'class stuff' to talk about, do you?" When their eyes both widen, he fights to stop from laughing. "All right, the both of you. What are you really here for?"

"Well," Selwyn bites her lip. "We didn't see you at dinner last night."

"And Professor Potter wasn't there, either."

Feeling impending doom crashing down around him, Draco does his best to prepare in the millisecond he has before they ask the question he knows they're going to.

"Were you… together? Are you two together?" The words tumble from Selwyn's mouth, and Butrum elbows her hard enough to force a gasp from her.

"Artica!" Butrum hisses. "Honestly, you can't just _ask_."

"I can assure you," Draco drawls, "we were _not_ together. Professor Potter and I are just friends."

Selwyn frowns. "But you weren't at dinner. You haven't been missing meals for months."

"Artica!"

"What?"

Draco laughs, hopelessly lost and somehow charmed by their concern. "Girls. Thank you for checking in on me, but I promise, I'm fine. There's no need to worry."

"And what about Professor Potter?"

"You could always ask him."

"Are you kidding?" Selwyn's eyes are open so wide that Draco can see the white all the way around her iris. "He's terrifying."

"ARTICA!"

"WHAT?"

Draco crosses his arms and leans back against the worktable behind him, laughing soundlessly as the two girls glare at each other. When they turn back to him, he has to press a hand to his eyes to wipe away tears.

"Professor Potter is a bit intimidating, I'll admit, but he's a good person. I'm sure if you wanted to check in on him thirty minutes before _his_ class, he would appreciate it as much as I have."

"Does that mean you're giving us permission to ask him questions about you?"

This time, Draco's the one to say, "Artica."

She blushes, but keeps pushing. "The two of you have been circling each other like wolves all year. We just want to make sure he's not bothering you. We've read a bit about what happened during the War, and our parents have talked about it before—right, Laurel?—we just… We don't want you to be afraid. Slytherins stick together, yeah?"

He softens. "Of course. But I'm not afraid of Professor Potter. We're colleagues, and we've put our pasts behind us. But thank you for thinking of me, girls. You don't have to worry about me. Now, your end of term exams…"

"Term's just started," Selwyn says with a whine.

"And you've both come in at the opportune time to do some extra work. I've some spleens that need dicing for class today. Get some cutting boards and the silver knives from the classroom supplies, and I'll get you the spleens."

"You didn't say he was going to make us _do_ anything, Laurel!"

"Well, what did you think he was going to do?"

Draco leaves the two of them bickering as they start dicing, laughing to himself as he goes into his workroom to check on the distillation. It's not progressed very far, but there's a small amount of crystal clear liquid in the bottom of the condensing container, and he smiles as another drop of potion coalesces at the top and slides down the easy curve of glass to join the rest.

Feeling oddly buoyed by the girls’ continued quiet bickering, Draco settles at the front of the classroom with _The London Journal_ to kill the rest of time before class begins. As other fourth year students start trickling in, they glance at Butrum and Selwyn with obvious curiosity on their faces. Knowles opens his mouth as if to ask, then shakes his head and settles at another table, getting his textbook out.

Class moves on without any disruptions, his fourth year students consistent in their lack of explosions, and when Selwyn and Butrum finally leave, the last two students to exit, Draco has nearly forgotten what brought them to his classroom early in the first place. They pause in the hallway to talk to Parslow, who gives Draco a very intent stare before nodding, and when he takes a seat, he's in the front row at the table closest to Draco's. Frowning, Draco walks to the front of the room, trying to figure out what, exactly, is happening with the Slytherin Quidditch players.

"We're going to get started on the Wideye Potion today," Draco says as soon as the rest of the third years file in. "I'll be breaking you into three different groups, six students in each, working in pairs. You will be making use of different cauldrons to complete the brewing." He rattles off names quickly, watching as the students rearrange themselves around the room. "Once you're all settled, I'll call you up to get a classroom cauldron. This potion can be brewed in either pewter"—he points to the group of students furthest to his left, moving right—"brass, or copper. The brews will finish at different rates depending on the cauldrons. I want you to take time while they're brewing to move around the room and observe the differences. Once the potions are fully brewed, we'll be doing a comparison of the brewing techniques and the results. Please open your textbooks to page 239 and start gathering supplies."

Parslow is as subtle about keeping an eye on Draco as he is at guarding his left side. Draco catches the young man watching him move around the room to assist with the brewing process more than once, and by the end of class, he's starting to get annoyed by it. As the rest of the class gathers their materials together, potions bubbling quietly off to the side of the room, Draco gestures towards Parslow, stopping him before he can leave the room.

"Mr Parslow, if you've a moment."

He stills, looking incredibly uncomfortable and obvious about it. As the rest of the class leaves, he deflates a little.

"Caught me, did you?"

"Obviously." Draco crosses his arms. "Now, if you could explain to me what, exactly, I've caught you doing, I would appreciate it."

"Could I _not_ explain instead?" At Draco's glare, he deflates further. "Lyndall asked us to keep an eye on you."

"Lyndall? Lyndall Hawkins?"

Parslow nods.

"Whatever for?"

"You just seemed out of sorts at the end of last term," he says. "Patrick was talking about it on the Express, and Naughty told us about it last night, and then the whole team thought you might need someone on your side, and then—"

"Hold on just a moment." Draco rubs at the bridge of his nose. "Patrick is Patrick Robinson?" Parslow nods. "And he told Routledge, who told Hawkins, who told everyone _else_ that I needed looking after?"

As Parslow's face grows impossibly redder, Draco looks up, hoping to find patience trapped somewhere near the ceiling. "Please, Fenton, do me a favor and inform the rest of the Slytherin team that I haven't needed someone to look after me since I came of age. The concern is appreciated, but unnecessary."

"But Pat said—"

"Mr Robinson is a Gryffindor with too much time on his hands. Now, please. I'm sure you have homework you need to be doing instead of taking up space in my classroom."

Dismissed and diminished with embarrassment, Parslow slinks from the room. Draco feels bad about it, but not nearly enough to call the boy back. Instead, he carefully checks the cauldrons one last time, only having to adjust the heat on one so that it won't boil over. He makes a similar adjustment to his De-Ageing potion which is still happily distilling away, then washes up before readying the classroom for the next day. 

Wednesdays are relatively light for him. He's got the first, second, and sixth years in the morning. First years are starting memory potions, though the weaker varieties and nothing he needs to be too seriously cautious about, while the second years are focusing on reinforcing brews like Strengthening Potions and Higginbottom's Hearty Healer. With NEWTs next year, the sixth years have been reviewing basic techniques and theories, and the seventh years are busy with their actual NEWT projects in the afternoon. With relatively little for him to do in terms of teaching, he has plenty of time to focus on testing his De-Ageing potion, which will have finished distilling by the next day. He needs to swing by the greenhouses to get some plants from Longbottom for testing, but when Draco checks the time, he's pleased to see there's plenty before dinner. He'll procure some ivy and disappear before Longbottom can ask any further uncomfortable questions.

After grabbing his cloak from his quarters, he takes the side door to the greenhouses, then hurries to Greenhouse Three. There's a box filled with cuttings of twining, dark ivy right inside the door, and Draco scoops them up, then hurries back to the potions classroom. The quick trip in the cold doesn't seem to have done any damage to the plants, and after giving them all a bit of water, he closes up his room, drops his cloak off, and heads up to dinner.

It's not until he's about to walk into the Great Hall that he remembers that Potter will likely be there, and with their recent habit of sitting near—or next—to each other at dinner, Draco's stomach clenches. He's not afraid of Potter—he hadn't been lying to Parslow when he said it earlier—and he's starting to accept the anger and hurt he'd felt the night before, but he's not ready to face the man or his potential response to seeing Draco. Honestly, he doesn't know what that response might be, and the uncertainty puts him on edge.

But as he walks through the open doors, he's surprised to see that Potter isn't at the head table at all. Creevey is, but he always sits as far away from Draco as possible, so it's a simple thing for Draco to avoid his angry eyes. Hagrid's also missing from his usual seat, and Draco does the maths, figuring the two of them must be together at Hagrid's hut. Refusing to think too hard about what they might be discussing or why Potter would feel the need to escape to the neutral ground of the gamekeeper's home, Draco takes the empty chair next to Minerva, waits for wine to fill his glass, and takes a welcome drink. 

He really needs to stop this habit of overthinking everything.

"How was your day, Draco?" she asks, sounding a bit tired.

"Interesting, to say the least."

She perks up. "Oh, do tell. Start of term is always so dull for me. Hardly any disasters to worry about at this point."

"I'll remind you of that when the end of term comes around, and you're having to put out literal fires."

"Let's not borrow trouble, now. What happened today?"

Draco takes another sip. "It seems that the Slytherin Quidditch team has a new mascot."

"Oh no. It's not one of Hagrid's Hydras is it?" She groans, eyes shut in dismay. "I thought we'd gotten them all."

"No," he says, chuckling, "nothing so dangerous as all that. It's _me_."

"You?"

"Yes. Apparently, Robinson told Routledge, who then told Hawkins, that I needed looking after. He sent the whole lot after me."

Minerva stares at him for a moment, then bursts into laughter. "Whatever for?"

"They're worried for me. They seem to think that Potter and I are at odds."

"Aren't you?"

"Perhaps." He swirls the ruby-red liquor, watching as it slides down the glass. "I'll let you know once I do."

It dims the mirth in her eyes, and he regrets saying something immediately. 

"I can speak with him, if you'd like?" she asks, brow furrowed thoughtfully.

"No. Whatever it is, it's between us. I don't think an outside perspective will shed any light on the issue."

She sighs. "I was hoping you two would move past your boyhood rivalry."

"I think we are, but it's rather… complicated."

"Well, if the students are talking about it, perhaps you two should address the issue sooner rather than later." She glances down the head table, then frowns. "I thought they'd be back by now."

"Who?"

"Harry and Hagrid."

"You know where they are?"

Her previously smiling face turns annoyed. "Yes. Consider it the one un-dull thing that happened today."

"That doesn't sound promising. Do I want to know?"

"Probably not, but I'm going to tell you anyway. I need the moral support." She takes a sip of wine. "The kelpies have gotten a bit out of hand, to absolutely no one's surprise. Hagrid asked Harry to help corral the herd, but that was hours ago."

Draco remembers the kelpie's enthusiasm when they'd drenched him at the start of term and winces. "If I had to guess, they're still at it. There's a reason the damned things are a controlled species."

"Hagrid's are apparently _un_ controlled." She leans back in her chair, looking weary but fond. "I should have expected as much when he suggested it, but I thought the squid would help keep them under control. We'll be relocating most of them next week. The Department of Magical Creatures has a reserve for them in Loch Lomond."

"That's good, then. Does Hagrid know already?"

"Oh, yes, and he cried a great deal over it, but after he calmed down, he saw reason."

A moment later, dinner appears. A simple plate of bangers and mash with green peas, it makes Draco smile. "Seems like the elves are still getting into the swing of things."

Minerva rolls her eyes. "I hope you're not too disappointed to not have gourmet tonight."

He shakes his head, and as he takes a bite, he finds the denial is not a lie after all. Somehow, the comforting flavor of mashed potatoes and heavily seasoned sausage helps shake off the last of his lingering sadness from the night before. And though the dish is simple, it's incredibly well-made. The potatoes are laden with butter and gravy, and the sausage's skin snaps when he cuts through it. Mixed with the peas, it's exactly what he needed without knowing he did.

When his plate vanishes to be replaced with a lemon biscuit and a delicate dessert coffee, he lets out a contented sigh.

"I'm glad they're looking out for you," Minerva says, breaking through his repose. "The students, I mean."

"It's a little much," he says before breaking off a piece of biscuit and popping it into his mouth.

"It shows they care about you"—she smiles—"and that you care about them."

He scoffs. "How dare you."

"You know you do," she says, laughing. "You wouldn't put up with all of the explosions otherwise."

"It comes with the profession, I'm afraid."

She hums, then turns back to her right. She and Aurora Sinestra continue discussing the Quadrantids from the week before, and whether they can arrange a viewing of the Lyrids in April. Draco lets the drone of the hall envelop him like the snow outside, coating him in a thick, heavy softness that encircles and deadens his mind and the worries trapped within it.

He doesn't even notice Potter's continued absence as he leaves the Great Hall, filled with coffee and contentment.

* * *

Morning classes go well, his younger students slowly easing back into the pattern of potions brewing. He'd lectured for most of it, going over the theory behind memory potions with the first years—Davies soaked it up like a sponge—and then demonstrating Higginbottom's for the seconds. For the sixth year class, he'd been another resource for their study, wandering past their tables periodically to answer questions or adjust hands on knives or their brews as needed. 

In the afternoon, the seventh years had hardly paid him any mind at all. Equally left to their own devices, Draco let them focus on their NEWT projects while he brought out the ivy starts and his De-Ageing potion, then tested it on various parts of the plants, noting the effects in a grid-ruled notebook he'd picked up the last time he was through Muggle London.

Unfortunately, his experiment doesn't have the intended effect, even after the distillation. Previous attempts had resulted in the ivy de-aging almost imperceptibly. Draco had assumed that distilling the potion would increase the potency, but he'd overshot. Before, ten drops had caused an ivy leaf to curl back to bud; now the same amount sends it back to seed. Curious, Draco adds an eleventh and watches as the seed folds in on itself, then erupts into a small, yellow flower. With a sigh, he notes the change, then starts revising his brewing instructions.

His focus is broken when someone coughs near his desk. Head snapping up, he finds Lyndall Hawkins standing before his desk, the room behind him empty.

"Did they all leave?" Draco asks, confused at where the time went.

Hawkins smiles. "Yeah. Figured we wouldn't bother you while you were working."

"That's very kind. How can I help you, Mr Hawkins?"

"I was wondering what you're working on, is all."

"It's a De-Ageing potion." Draco rubs at the bridge of his nose. "You're sure it doesn't have anything to do with sending the entire House team after me?"

Hawkins does his best to brazen through it, his smile wide and unapologetic, but the flush in his cheeks belies it. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Professor."

"You're lucky I'm a Slytherin, too, or I'd take points for lying to staff." He shakes his head. "I'm fine, honestly."

"It's hard, though, yeah? Being one?"

Draco frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Being Slytherin. I mean"—he ducks his head for a moment, expression turning serious—"they all hate us, don't they?"

"The other Houses?" When Hawkins nods, Draco takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. "They don't, not really. The War left some… lingering animosities. But it's not reflective of you or the other members of your House. As we all have to learn, prejudices exist for everyone, and breaking free of them is difficult for us all."

"Do you think we can?"

"Judge others by their actions, not by their House or their family. That'll do more than anything else to get you through to the truth."

Hawkins nods. "Thank you, Professor. Oh!" His serious expression lightens. "I heard you're going to be chaperoning the next Hogsmeade trip. Is that true?"

"Ah, yes." Draco feels suddenly uncomfortable. "Yes, I will be."

"We're all excited about it. Would you mind getting a butterbeer with the team? I understand if you say no, since we're all students, but we'd love to. Our treat."

His earnestness is as bright as an open flame, and though Draco knows he should put it out, he can't help but be charmed by its warmth. "Only one."

Hawkins whoops, then immediately flushes. "Sorry, Professor. I can't wait to tell them. Nautica is going to lose her mind."

"Try not to damage any of the team, please. We've got the Cup to think about."

"Of course, of course." Still grinning, he takes a step towards the door, then does a small victory dance that makes Draco feel incredibly old and charmed all over again. "See you tomorrow, Professor!"

"Good evening, Mr Hawkins."

Draco carries Hawkins' joy with him as he bundles himself up to walk towards Hagrid's hut before dinner. He hadn't seen the man at breakfast or lunch, and concerned that he might have been the kelpies first and only victim, Draco can't stop himself from going to check on him, a warming brew and Pepper-Up Potion in his pockets, just in case.

He's glad he brought them because when he knocks on Hagrid's door, he's greeted by a giant wall of blankets and a nose so red, it looks like someone cast a Stinging Hex at it.

"Good lord, Hagrid," Draco says as the man shuffles back to fall into a chair before the fire. "What in the world happened to you?"

"Kelpies," he says, voice muffled by what sounds like a skull full of mucus. "Didn't like us messing with them one bit."

"And…?" Draco pulls the Pepper-Up from his pocket and offers it to Hagrid, who takes it thankfully.

"Nearly drowned us, is what. And with the cold and the wet, well." He drinks the potion in one solid go, then gasps out a puff of smoke when he finishes. "I'm sick."

"Clearly." Draco sets the warming brew on a shelf near the door, then sets to making a pot of tea. "If you need more Pepper-Up, let me know."

"Of course, of course. Harry might need some, too. He was just as bad as me yesterday."

Draco pauses for a moment, then goes back to filling the kettle and setting it on the wood-burning stove. "I'll make sure to bring him a bottle or two when I get back to the castle."

"He was worried about you," Hagrid says muzzily from the corner of the room. Draco turns and sees that the man has somehow squeezed his massive bulk into a heavily upholstered chair. Wrapped up to his chin in his blanket, he looks like an overly-stuffed, oversized throw cushion. "Said you were upset 'bout something."

"It seems like I should have been worried about the two of you instead. Honestly, I told you the kelpies were a bad idea."

"But they're endangered, Malfoy!" Hagrid wails before sneezing loudly. Wiping his nose with the corner of the blanket, he continues. "And someone has to do something to help."

"That's what the Department of Magical Creatures is for, you idiot. You should be counting your blessings that you didn't die in the damned lake."

"Just a bit of wet," Hagrid murmurs quietly. As the kettle starts to whistle, the shrill sound blends with the rattling roar of a snore. Draco takes the kettle off the heat and finds Hagrid, unsurprisingly, passed out behind him.

"You great big lummox," he says fondly. "What would you do without me, honestly?"

Hagrid's bed is a mess of sheets and blankets, but Draco quickly changes the linens and adds another quilt to the top. Hidden in the corner of the room is a massive hot water bottle, and he fills it with the water meant for the tea. Tucking it into the foot of the bed, he walks over to Hagrid and shakes him awake gently.

"Come on, old man. Let's get you into bed."

"Thank you, Malfoy," Hagrid says blearily. Stumbling a bit, he makes his way to the bed. As he settles into the sheets, Draco pulls the blankets over the man's great bulk, tucking them in close around his shoulders. "That's nice, it is."

"You get some rest. I'll have an elf bring you soup later."

As he turns to leave, Hagrid's voice stops him. "Draco."

When he turns around, the man's eyes are half-lidded and blurred with illness, but Hagrid's words are clear. "You're a good man. I know you don't see it, but you are. Can't do nothing about people seeing what they want when they look at you, but you're more than that. Bit like a kelpie, really." Hagrid shifts further under the blankets, his great eyes closing. "Seem like one thing on the surface, but you're something else underneath it all."

Throat tight, Draco nods. "Sleep well, Hagrid."

"Night, Malfoy."

He lets himself out quickly, shutting the door firmly so no chill can get inside. But though the snow's started again, and there's a wicked wind whipping across the open lawn, Draco stands on the other side of Hagrid's door, hand pressed to the wood for a long, quiet time.

* * *

Draco goes to his private storeroom to get a few more bottles of Pepper-Up, figuring he'll ask Dippy or another one of the elves to bring some to Potter's room at the same time he goes to request soup for Hagrid. It's rare that he gets sick, but with a school full of germ-ridden children and professors who insist on hugging them, Draco always has a backup supply on hand for when Pomfrey's stores get low.

He's on his knees, head-deep in a cabinet when there's a knock on the door. Startled, he raps his head against the top, then winces as he pulls himself out.

"Merlin, can you not sneak up on me?" he asks, rubbing at the back of his head before he turns to see who's interrupted him. It is, of course, Potter.

"Hi."

"Hello." Draco gets off the floor, brushing dust from his knees as he goes. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Unlike Hagrid, Potter looks hale and hearty after his run in with the kelpies. His dark hair is pulled back in a half-ponytail today, showing off the masculine line of his cheek and jawbone. It's been awhile since he's shaved, and his face is shadowed with the beginnings of a beard. As he adjusts his glasses, he looks down and frowns. "I think you ripped your trousers."

Draco jerks his eyes down and sees that Potter's right. Cursing quietly, he finds his wand and casts a quick _Reparo_. Wool isn't nearly as forgiving as pewter, and Draco scowls at the noticeable line of mended fabric. Still frowning, he looks up at Potter and asks, perhaps a bit too sharply, "What do you want?"

"Pomfrey said you might have some Pepper-Up?" Potter looks bashful. "Hagrid and I—"

"The kelpies, I heard. One moment."

He bends back down and grabs the box of Pepper-Up he was halfway through pulling out of storage when Potter came in. Lifting it to the counter, the bottles ring against each other gently. He takes one out and passes it to Potter, their fingers nearly brushing.

"Thanks." Potter stares at the bottle, then puts it in the pocket of his robe.

"I was about to send some to your rooms."

"That's kind of you." Potter coughs. "Hagrid's worse than I am."

"I saw him earlier. You look much better than he does." Heat suffuses his face. "I mean…"

It's enough to force a laugh from Potter. "I know what you mean, Malfoy. Don't have a fit."

"I'm not having a…" He shakes his head. "Anyway, if you need more, just send a Patronus, and I'll have a house-elf bring some up for you."

"This should be enough. I… " Potter pauses. His shoulders straighten, and he finally meets Draco's eyes, expression serious. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you, too. If you're not busy."

"What about?"

"About what you overheard the other day."

Merlin, he's never going to be free of Potter coming to talk to him about awkward moments and feelings, is he? "It's okay, Potter. Creevey has a right to hold a grudge."

"But not against you. You didn't do anything."

"I did enough."

"That's not…" He huffs out an irritated breath. "I don't mean that you weren't involved. Obviously, you were, but… You weren't fighting _with_ them at the end."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

"It doesn't excuse the past."

"No, but he shouldn't be blaming you for something you didn't do, and I should've…" Potter looks away. "It wasn't right for him to say those things."

"It wasn't wrong, either." With a sigh, Draco runs his fingers through his hair. His skin is coated in dust, and he can feel where he's wiped it against his forehead. "I'm not angry at you, Potter. Not anymore."

"I'd almost rather you were. I know how to deal with you when you're angry."

Draco laughs. "Well, I've somehow learned restraint over the years. You're off the hook."

"I… I guess that's okay, then." Potter swallows, somehow looking more awkward than before, even though the worst part of this conversation is over with. "I don't know if you've any plans tonight, but I was wondering… I'm not as good at the stretches by myself, and my leg…"

"You need my help with it?"

"If you're not busy. I don't…" Now Potter's the one flushing. "I know you've got plenty going on, what with the new term starting and exams to start prepping for."

"I have some time now." Draco looks around the storeroom, then frowns at the mess. "I'll need to get this set to rights and wash up. I'll meet you in the hospital wing in fifteen minutes?

Potter gives him a sheepish look. "I was thinking the dueling room, instead? There are mats there, and I'd rather students not be able to walk in while we're working on my leg."

"It's okay for them to know that you were injured. It's probably common knowledge by now."

He shrugs, eyes on the floor. "I still don't like people knowing."

"Okay. Do you want to wait, or…"

"I'll just… I need to change. Fifteen should be fine. I'll see you then?"

"Unless I'm abducted along the way."

"Don't jinx yourself, Malfoy."

"Fifteen, Potter. Now out while I get this tidied up."

Potter raps his knuckles on the doorframe, as if thinking of something else to say. But when nothing happens, Draco raises his eyebrow, and Potter finally steps back into the classroom. "I'll see you in a bit."

"Yes, we've established that already." Draco doesn't quite understand what's happening, but as Potter finally disappears, it gives Draco a long moment's pause as he runs the conversation through his mind, cataloging the way Potter's body had shifted side to side, the many nervous ticks he'd exhibited, and the way he'd kept looking at Draco, even when it seemed like he didn't want to.

It sends heat through him, and as he sets aside a half-dozen Pepper-Up bottles and summons a house-elf for Hagrid's soup, Draco wonders what kind of trouble he might find himself in shortly, with Potter's body underneath him, spread across exercise mats, both of them clothed and, maybe, both of them wishing otherwise.


	12. Chapter 12

The Hogsmeade weekend comes howling in like a winter storm, catching Draco off-guard and unprepared. He's had plenty of time to ready himself for it—he's known for weeks now that the trip was coming—but it's somehow snuck up on him anyway. So when he steps from the front doors of Hogwarts, a sea of students drifting with the proverbial tide towards town, Draco's pulled along with them, caught in a current of teenaged exuberance.

Thankfully, he's not cast adrift by himself. There are far too many students for only one supervising professor and besides Draco, Sinistra, Flitwick, Helmsworth, and Longbottom are also accompanying the minors. The other professors cluster together, chatting amicably as they trail after the student horde, but Draco stays a few steps behind, letting their indistinct voices drift back to him on the cold wind.

The Slytherin team either haven't seen him or are too excited about their upcoming match against Ravenclaw to pay him much mind. Their concerted effort to keep an eye on him had lessened after the third or fourth time he'd told them to let it be, but they'd started circling him again, Hawkins especially, as the Hogsmeade visit approached.

"You're gonna get a butterbeer with us, yeah?" he'd asked Thursday while packing up after the NEWTs practicum. "On Saturday?"

"I promised, didn't I?" Draco asked in return, doing his best to not sound exasperated or roll his eyes. Since Hawkin's grin didn't fade at the question, Draco gave himself the point.

The whole team had shot him happy glances at dinner that night and all through Friday. Selwyn had been the most outspoken about it, unsurprisingly, but Butrum had done a good job of keeping her enthusiasm in check while not dampening her own. Honestly, the whole mess of them were like a litter of puppies, falling over themselves in exuberant joy and overly large paws.

Draco's always loved dogs.

The cold winter air is also something he appreciates. His stretching session with Potter was a lesson in restraint and gave him a perfect opportunity to practice Arithmancy with such fervency, his dreams were haunted by numbers and formulas and green, half-lidded eyes.

"How're we doing today, Malfoy?" Longbottom says, bumping his elbow against Draco's and dragging his attention uncomfortably to the present. "This is your first Hogsmeade trip, yeah?"

Uncertain when his attention had faded enough for Longbottom to join him, Draco nods. "Yes. Minerva asked me to cover for Creevey."

"I didn't think Dennis was signed up for this weekend." While Draco fights back a surge of suspicion, Longbottom shrugs. "I must've misremembered the sign-up sheet. Anyway, you'll have a great time. Watching the students stumble all over themselves with whomever they like is pure comedy."

"I'd think you would have a greater sense of camaraderie with them, considering your own previous behavior with romantic entanglements."

"You mean you?"

Draco glares at him. "I meant when we were at school."

"I never."

"I'm sure Ginevra Weasley remembers differently."

"Ginny?" Longbottom laughs, long and hard. "Merlin, Malfoy, I was her _beard_."

"Her what?"

It sends Longbottom into another fit of laughter, bent over at the waist, hands on his knees, the other professors looking at the pair of them like they've gone round the bend. Draco nearly kicks the prat.

"She's gay, you idiot. I'd think like would recognise like."

Draco does kick him, then starts down the path while Longbottom curses and grabs at his leg.

"Ouch! Malfoy, wait up!" Draco hides his smile, then slows enough for Longbottom to catch up. "What're those boots made out of? Felt like a brick."

"They're steel-toed. It's a safety feature, in case a cauldron falls off of a workbench."

"Are you worried about cauldrons falling from the sky?"

"Well, you never know. Constant vigilance, isn't it?"

"Christ, that makes me feel old." Longbottom's mouth curves into a smile. "Didn't he turn you into a ferret?"

"Yes. I kept wanting to crawl into things for weeks after."

It shocks a laugh from Longbottom. "When did you get funny, Malfoy?"

"After sleeping with you, I suppose. It was certainly something to laugh about."

"Ha ha." Longbottom gives him a quick, sweeping glance from head to toe that makes the hairs on the back of Draco's neck stand up. "I don't remember you laughing."

"I'm a great actor. Faked it every time."

"Right." Longbottom looks at Draco again, gaze slightly heated. His mouth opens as if he's going to say something else—Draco feels a wave of dread at the spark of mischief in Longbottom's eyes as he does so—when his smile goes from teasing to bright and open "Harry! I didn't think you were coming!"

Draco stops and turns around, shocked into silence as Potter comes jogging up the path behind them, his limp hardly noticeable. His smile is brilliant and warm, but it dims a little as he looks between Draco and Longbottom. "I wasn't sure I was going to catch up. I didn't interrupt anything, did I?"

"No," Draco says at the same moment that Longbottom says, "Yes."

Draco kicks at him again, which sends Longbottom dancing away from him, cackling the whole time. "I'm throwing those boots out."

"You'll do no such thing," Draco says in his most Professor-ish voice.

"I didn't think I'd need to chaperone the other teachers," Potter says dryly. "Clearly, I was wrong."

"Longbottom started it."

"Did not!"

"Ten points from the faculty," Potter says, laughing. "Come on, the students are getting away."

They fall into step next to each other, the three of them spread across the wide path leading to Hogsmeade. Walking between Potter and Longbottom, Draco thinks he should feel more uncomfortable about it than he is. Instead, there's a low glow in his stomach, a warm and precious thing that he hasn't felt in years, not since he was in France and huddled over a cauldron, his problems and the rest of the world held at bay by the low simmer of a potion brewing.

"What, exactly, are we expected to do?" Draco asks as they cross into the outskirts of Hogsmeade. "I never paid the professors any mind when I went on these trips as a student."

"It's a bit like herding sheep," Longbottom says. "Just make sure they stay relatively close together, and don't let any wolves take the weaker ones."

"Helpful." Draco turns his attention to Potter. "Do you have any advice I can actually do something with?"

"He's not exactly _wrong_ about the wolves." When Draco glares at him, Potter shrugs. "I seem to remember them getting pissed at the Three Broomsticks. At least, that's what I'm planning on doing."

"I knew you should've been sorted into Ravenclaw," Longbottom says sagely. "That sounds like a brilliant idea."

"Perhaps they gave us a different dictionary in Slytherin, but I seem to remember 'chaperoning' meaning to _supervise_."

"While pissed," Longbottom adds, which makes Potter laugh. "They'll be _fine_ , Malfoy. You really only need to keep an eye on the third years, and this lot is pretty sedate."

Longbottom has a point, but Draco still feels uncomfortable about the idea of drinking and leaving the students to manage themselves. "Still, I'd rather keep my wits about me. You never know what kind of trouble children can get into."

"Between the three of us, I'm certain we've either thought or done everything they might get up to. C'mon, get a pint, Malfoy. Relax a bit."

"Let him be, Neville." Potter nods his head towards the shops. "I was going to look for a new book, if you want to come with?"

Longbottom gives Draco a very pointed look which has him hesitating as he tries to understand what, exactly, the man is trying to say without words. There's something familiar about the arch of his eyebrow, an expression that Draco's seen before but can't quite remember. But then Potter puts his hand to Draco's elbow, and with a feeling of inevitability, he nods. "A book sounds lovely."

"Swots," Longbottom says with a friendly grin. "I'll be in the Broomsticks if you're looking for me later. Try not to learn too much."

"You're a professor!" Potter yells after Longbottom's retreating back. "You should encourage learning!"

Longbottom holds up two fingers, and Potter laughs. It's not until they're walking away that Draco remembers that same expression crossing Longbottom's face when Draco approached him with his arms elbow-deep in dirt and a sentient plant cradled between them, deadly and alien and threatening.

* * *

Book shopping with Potter should not be a sexual experience. They're in Tomes and Scrolls, which is filled with dust, books, and little else. The proprietor—a woman with glasses as thick as Draco’s thumb and so hunched with age she's a right angle behind the counter—had creaked a welcome at them, then settled back into a high wooden chair covered in faded cushions. There's a heavy smell of wet cat and mildew, things that a bookshop should not smell like, and with the dim light inside, it's far from an erotic atmosphere.

But as Potter trails his fingers over the spines of books, Draco wonders what they'd feel like on his skin. When he cradles a text in his wide palms, careful and considering as he turns through the pages, it's as if Potter is running his calloused fingertips across Draco's pulse points, waiting to feel his heartbeat beneath skin.

Draco does his best to not follow after Potter, panting, but even when he moves to another aisle, eyes scanning titles he doesn't bother to read about subjects he won't remember later, Potter inevitably tracks him down, and the whole tortuous process begins again.

"What're you looking for?" Draco asks, shocked that his voice doesn't break when it splits the silence.

"Something for a friend," he says, peering over Draco's shoulder then frowning. "Why are you looking at children's books?"

"I do have a younger cousin," Draco says with a sniff. "He might enjoy these."

"Teddy's into comics these days," Potter says with a smile. "It's okay if you like fairy tales, Malfoy. I won't judge."

Unfortunately for him, Draco does enjoy fairy tales, and once he realises he's looking at an anthology of collected Medieval texts, he's interested enough to pick the book up and flip through the illuminated pages. Potter stays perched over his shoulder, though he falls silent as they both stare at the beautiful drawings cascading across the text, their delicate lines intertwined with the text like ivy through a trellis.

"Do you know this one?" Draco asks after turning to the next page. He trails his fingers over the symbol in the corner. "The Three Brothers?"

Potter nods, then steps back. "Rather well."

"Ah. I always liked it as a child." Draco shuts the book, then goes to put it back on the shelf. Before he can fully seat it, though, Potter's hand wraps around Draco's wrist, stopping him.

"No," Potter says quietly, drawing Draco's hand and the book clenched within it back from the shelf. "You like it. You should get it."

Draco wants to blame his inability to breathe on the dust and mildew in the shop, but it's because Potter's touch is holding oxygen at bay. "I don't need another book, Potter."

"My treat?" he says instead, taking the text from Draco's hand. "I must owe you a book at this point, considering all of the ones you've given me so far."

"You don't have to buy me things, Potter."

"I like buying my _friends_ "—he leans into the word—"presents, Malfoy." His eyes the same shade as a forest at twilight, smile soft, he says, "Please," and Draco's lost.

"Fine," Draco says, as if his heart isn't thundering in his ears. "But I'm buying you lunch."

"Deal." Potter's grin is the brightest thing in the store, and Draco trails after it like a moth to a flame as Potter goes to the front counter and pays. With a flourish, he offers the paper sack to Draco, his smile contagious and somehow hesitant.

Draco takes it, charmed and flustered, heart racing, and then places it under his arm. "Lunch, then?"

"Lead the way."

* * *

Though there are two options for food in Hogsmeade, Draco immediately heads to the Three Broomsticks without bothering to ask Potter's preference. Even with his past with Rosmerta, the pub is still miles ahead of the Hog's Head in terms of atmosphere and quality. Draco would rather not suffer through Aberforth muttering behind the bar, even the light inside the place somehow dark. Rosmerta's visible confusion at seeing Draco and Potter walk in, together and not trying to murder each other, nearly makes Draco reconsider his decision.

"If there's an empty table, it's yours," she says mainly to Harry, as if Draco isn't there at all. "I'll be round to take your orders in a moment."

"Thank you, Rosmerta," Draco says pointedly, then immediately wishes he hadn't when she turns a blank stare to him. He hurries into the crowded dining room, finds an open table with two chairs, and, after sitting, tries to melt into his seat, as if becoming a biological varnish will make the embarrassment any better.

"You okay there?"

"More or less," Draco replies with a heavy breath. "When you've held someone under Imperius for months, it makes for an awkward long-term relationship."

"I'm honestly surprised she lets you in here."

"Money has a way of smoothing things over," Draco says. "There was an anonymous donation made to her after the War ended that let her purchase the pub outright. We both pretend the other doesn't know where the money came from."

"You bought her a bar?"

"Honestly, if I thought she would have accepted an apology, I'd have tried that instead. As it is"—Draco looks around the crowded room, filled with laughing students and an already inebriated Longbottom seated with Sinistra and Flitwick, both doing their level best to catch up—"I think this is as close to one as I can get."

"I can't believe it's been almost ten years since it all ended," Potter says, gaze distant and indistinct. "It still feels like yesterday."

"And yet…"

"And yet."

Rosmerta arrives a moment later to take their order (beer and shepherd's pie for the both of them), then disappears back into the throng. Potter's eyes dart across the room. There's something about the motion that's both thoughtless, as if he's doing it without realising it, and pointed. It's clearly his Auror training at work, that mantra of "constant vigilance" echoing through his mind, but it's also frenetic and harried, like that first night when he'd skulked into the Great Hall as if the students might band together to attack. There's fear in the motion, even though the most suspect thing in the pub is Longbottom. It makes Draco's heart hurt, to see the lasting impact of war etched into Potter's body and mind, a scar as deep and as cutting as the one on his forehead.

"Look over there," Potter says, mouth lifting into a smile. "You're not going to believe it."

Draco turns in his chair and follows Potter's line of sight to the other end of the pub. Nestled into a corner booth is the Slytherin Quidditch team and Patrick Robinson. He's seated next to Routledge, and their hands are resting on the table between them, fingers laced together.

"I've seen that coming since last term," Draco says as he turns back to Potter. "They've been dancing around each other all year."

"Oh, come off it," Potter says, looking affronted. "You didn't know."

"I did. She always waited for him after class, and they've cribbed each other's essays at least once."

Potter crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, clearly off-put. "I don't get it."

"What?"

"How you're so in touch with them. Like you know them."

"I do know them, Potter."

"That's not what I meant."

Draco grins. "I pay attention. We're responsible for molding the minds of the next wizarding generation. Knowing who they are outside of the classroom is part of that."

"Okay then, what can you tell me about Amelia Hughes?"

"Fifth-year Gryffindor, red hair. Not that great at Potions, but not awful at it. She's best friends with Sabine Rivers—fifth-year Ravenclaw, before you ask. Her mother works at the _Prophet_ , father is a Muggle repairman. Her younger brother will be starting at Hogwarts in two years, and she thinks he'll end up in Hufflepuff. Her favourite color is—"

Potter laughs. "Okay, okay. You've proved your point. Merlin." He takes a deep drink of beer, eyes drifting back to the group of students in the corner. "You're good at this."

"At memorising random trivia about our students?"

"At being a teacher. When Minerva offered me the job, I didn't think about that part of it. I just needed… It didn't occur to me that it would be more than just telling them what I knew and marking tests and all that crap. I thought it would be easy." He looks at Draco again. "You make it look easy."

"I make many things look easy."

"Modesty, especially. Seriously, though. Looking back, I don't think we had many teachers who did it well. Binns is obviously crap, and I won't even bother mentioning Snape, though I know you liked him. Minerva cared, but she was strict and distant, even as my Head of House." Potter takes a drink and licks the foam from his top lip. "I think Remus might've been one of the only good professors we had, and he only taught here for a year. He made you _care_ about it. Made it exciting and new, even the boring bits. And outside of the classroom, I knew he cared about me, about the other students. He didn't make anyone feel like they were less important to him than anyone else."

Draco nods. "I didn't have the same relationship with him that you did, but… He was good."

"I think…" Potter pauses. "If Snape had been more like you, I might've enjoyed potions. You make it seem… interesting."

"Thank you." Draco has to look away. If he keeps blushing around Potter, the man's going to think he's got a disease or something. "That's a kind thing to say."

"It's the truth, though. The students love you. That lot"—he jerks his chin in the direction of the Slytherin team—"keep glaring at me during class when they think I'm not looking. Hawkins nearly got me with a stinging hex the other day while we were practicing dueling, and I'm pretty sure he was trying to do it for your… honour or something, I don't quite know."

"Really? He nearly got the great Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, Master of Death, Saviour of the Wizarding World?"

"Oh, please don't break out the titles," Potter says with a laughing groan. "I hate those damned things."

"All the more reason to use them." Draco hides his smile in his beer.

Rosmerta arrives a few minutes later with their food, setting their plates on the table before disappearing back into the bustle of the pub. It's simple fare, but Draco's glad it's arrived. It gives him a reprieve from any more kindness and indecipherable looks from Potter. Mouth full, eyes trained on his plate, he can't say anything else and leave Draco spinning in the wind with Potter's words like leaves dancing around his feet, beautiful and just out of his reach.

Potter takes their empty plates and steins up to the bar, then returns with both glasses heavy with foam. "Second round’s on me," he says as he slides Draco's drink to him across the table.

"Again, you don't have to buy me things"

"Drink your beer, Malfoy."

He does, though he wants to laugh again. This is too easy, too simple. Sharing a drink with Potter shouldn't feel like a favourite jumper or a cup of tea at breakfast. It shouldn't be this warm, this comforting. But as Draco sips idly at his beer, the two of them sitting in companionable silence, it _is_ , and it's terrifying.

Longbottom's laughter cuts through the hum of the pub and Draco's thoughts, and with a frown, he asks, "What's a beard?"

Potter snorts into his beer, then starts coughing, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. "What?" he chokes out before being overcome with another bout of coughing.

"It's something Longbottom said earlier. Merlin, Potter, don't drown in it." Draco passes him his handkerchief. "He said that he was the Weaslette's beard.'

"Oh God, I'm not drunk enough for this conversation." Potter wipes his mouth, coughs again, then takes a long drink of beer. "Why in the world were you talking about Ginny with Neville?"

"It came up."

"Right." Potter frowns. "Why do you care who Neville dated?"

"I don't. Why do you care if I care?"

"I don… Beard is slang for someone who dates a gay person to help them stay closeted."

"Ah." Draco nods, takes a drink. "I thought it was something like that, the way Longbottom responded."

"Parkinson was yours, wasn't she?"

Draco frowns. "Pansy is my best friend, and a better person than I'll ever be. I'd never use her that way."

"They usually agree to it."

"Well." Draco feels like an arse now. "No, she wasn't. I was still working things out back then."

"You're still friends with her?"

"Yes, and her husband."

"She married Nott?"

"Yes. They're desperately in love with each other. It's disgusting."

Potter laughs. "They can't be worse than Ron and Hermione. You'd think we were still in seventh year, the way they carry on sometimes."

His smile is a soft thing that Draco wants to know the feel of, the way it pulls at the muscles of Potter's mouth and lightens the color of his eyes. Draco's hand lifts from the table, just barely, but he flattens it against the scarred wood, holds himself back. "It seems rather… nice, I think. To have something like that."

Potter looks up at him through the fall of his fringe. "Do you want something like that? For yourself?"

"Me?" Draco snorts. "Salazar, no. But it's nice that Pansy has it. And that Weasley and Granger do."

"Why not you?"

"That's a bit personal, don't you think?"

"We're just having a friendly conversation."

Before Draco's able to answer, someone shouts his name. He turns and sees the Slytherin Quidditch team making their way towards his and Potter's table, wide smiles across all of their faces. 

"Professor Malfoy!" Hawkins is leading the charge. He stands next to the table, his smile turning a bit less sincere as he takes in Potter. "Professor Potter."

"Mr Hawkins," Draco says, drawing the young man's attention back to him. "I assume you're here for your butterbeers?"

His grin flashes. "Yes, sir."

Though there isn't any space to sit at Draco and Potter's small table, the team somehow manages to wedge themselves in around it, the other customers sitting near them shifting their tables until the seven teenagers—Robinson's been dragged along by Routledge, and Wagstaff is back at Hogwarts as the only second year on the team—find a way to sit down. Their elbows are bumping against Draco's, and his and Potter's knees are knocking together under the table, but something about the forced proximity to so many smiling children and Potter smiling, too, makes it worth the discomfort.

"Perhaps you should have gone to get the drinks before you all got cosy," Draco says, uncertain if he'll be able to unwedge himself.

"I've got it," Potter says as he scoots his chair back enough to stand. Hawkins protests, reaching for his purse, but Potter waves him off. "My treat." 

The team quickly fills in the space he'd left behind, and Harry rolls his eyes before heading to the bar.

"So," Robinson says, leaning forward. "You and Potter, huh?"

"Somewhere along the way, someone must have taught you decorum."

"I think I slept through that class," Robinson says with a shrug.

"Or broke something and got sent out," Routledge adds. Robinson frowns until she busses a kiss on his cheek.

"He's avoiding the question," Selwyn says sagely. "What's going on with you two?"

"We are friends, as I'm certain I've mentioned before." Draco looks around the table of eager eyes. "Don't you have better things to do than gossip about your professors?"

"Absolutely not," Chatten says, the rest of the team nodding in agreement.

"When I was your age," Draco says, somewhere between annoyed and amused, "we had the good sense to be scared of our professors."

"You're only scary when you're shouting," Robinson says.

Butrum nods. "Or reffing. You're way more strict than Hooch."

"He's changed the subject again," Selwyn says. "Professor Potter likes you, yeah?"

"That's generally implied by the word 'friend,' yes."

"No, not like that. He _likes_ you."

"Artica!" Butrum elbows her.

"What?" She rubs at her side. "Also, ow."

"Children," Draco laughs. "No cobbing in the pub."

They grin at him, and he's suddenly full of warmth from the beer and their obvious happiness. The conversation quickly devolves into Quidditch talk, and by the time Potter comes back to the table, a tray laden with steaming butterbeers held gingerly before him, Draco's awash in good feeling and a happiness like chains around his heart.

* * *

Hours later, Draco and the other professors gather the students like wayward sheep—no wolves in sight—and start directing them back to Hogwarts. The sun is starting to set even though it's still relatively early in the evening. The snow glows with orange and red, covering the world in a pastel drawing of blush and gold. With the dark spots of students trailing before him, breaking up the sea of color with dots of black, Draco thinks it all looks like some odd mythical creature, one that fills him with wonder and quiet adoration.

He hadn't expected the trip to go as well as it did, for everything to be as joyous as it had been. And he certainly hadn't expected Potter to be a large part of that. Casting his eyes towards Potter, who's talking with Longbottom a few steps ahead, Draco does his best to fight down the welling emotion building in his chest.

This isn't safe, what he's feeling right now. It's overwhelming and overpowering. It reminds him of glass eyes embedded in a silver vial and the lingering scent of spice and musk, and questions he'll never be able to answer. Draco knows that he's attracted to Potter, has been attracted to him for a long time, but the emotion growing within his chest is something more than lust. It's tangled up with it because he has eyes and Potter is bloody gorgeous—sunset catching in his hair, green eyes vibrant as spring in the winter wasteland, body lean and strong, limp nowhere to be seen—but there's a softness there, too, like the world right before dawn or a flower before blooming, a beginning waiting to begin, that has Draco simultaneously desperate for it to start and terrified that it will.

As if he can read Draco's thoughts, Potter glances at him over his shoulder, hands in his pockets, face creased into a smile that grows gentle as he nods at Draco. When he turns back to Longbottom, it's like a punch to Draco's gut, not because Potter turned away but because he turned towards Draco in the first place.

It does not bode well, this energy that's been building between the two of them since Potter called them friends and somehow brought it into being with only words. There's danger here, one that Draco's known before. He doesn't trust this feeling in his stomach and chest, knows that it can be so easily twisted from the beautiful thing it is to darkness. But Potter's smile is bright, his laughter like stars, and Draco, if only for a moment, desperately wishes that it will stay that way, distant and untouchable, but something that Draco can look at and know the good of without tainting it with his touch.


	13. Chapter 13

Though it's months until OWLs and NEWTs, Draco's upper classes are studying like they're next week. Robinson's newfound delicacy around potions equipment seems catching, as the rest of the class's previous exuberance for destruction has lessened along with his. Shockingly, when he's not breaking things, Robinson is a talented potioneer, and Draco finds himself checking the young man's cauldron's contents with a burgeoning respect. Robinson preens under the extra, positive attention, and Routledge seems smug that her boyfriend is doing so well in the class.

Their budding romance is also the talk of the castle. It's not entirely uncommon for students from different houses to date, but Gryffindor and Slytherin are rarely paired together. It makes for a few awkward moments in the hallways, groups from both houses whispering when the couple walks past, but in the face of Routledge's prowess with a Beater's bat and Robinson's unflappable good mood, the sideways glances quickly shift from suspicion to amusement. After all, the two of them insist on carrying on in the most charming, disgusting manner possible. Robinson's constantly leaving flowers for Routledge, and she'd somehow managed to charm his Gryffindor ties to change to Slytherin ones at random moments. Draco had caught them in a dungeon hallway, Routledge pulling Robinson in by silver and green for a laughing kiss. While he'd smiled about it later, he'd sent them both to their requisite common rooms in the moment, Angry Professor Malfoy expression firmly in place.

Dankworth's undergone a similar transformation, his previous hesitancy either worn away by time or determination or both, just in time for them to start one of the harder sixth year potions. Though Draco despises the things, he's starting to teach love potions.

"These are not simple brews," he lectures, writing a list of known potions on the chalkboard behind his work table. "While we will only be brewing Amortentia, expect to see a variety of love potions on your exam at the end of term. Now, what can you tell me about them?"

"They're illegal," Patricia Barlow says from the back of the class.

" _Some_ of them are illegal. Amortentia is very tightly controlled, but the school has a dispensation from the Ministry of Magic to allow you all to brew it, partly for your continuing education and partly so you can recognise it and its effects. What else?"

"Most of them require pearl dust and rose petals," Dankworth offers.

Draco nods and writes both on the board. "And why is that?"

"I… The rose petals are more stable than thorns?"

"They certainly are. Five points, Dankworth." Draco turns to face the class. "They're also both used in love potions because we _think_ they should be used in love potions. What is magic but our will made manifest? When it comes to emotional potions—love, hate, desire, luck—that will is transferred to the ingredients used. As long as your will is in line with the potions' intent, there's some leniency with the components. I can follow the textbook definition of Amortentia and make a love potion, but I can also adjust the ingredients and create just as effective a final product. For example, if the object of my desire prefers tulips to roses, I can substitute petals and stems from that flower for the roses, and it will still work. But what do you think the consequence of that change is?"

Collingsworth raises his hand. "It won't work on anyone else?"

"Close. It won't work on anyone who doesn't also love tulips."

"But why does Amortentia work on everyone, then?" Watwood asks. "What if I hate roses?"

"Fantastic question. Five points to Hufflepuff. Does anyone want to try to answer Miss Watwood's question?"

Blank stares greet him until Eckersley, one of the quietest students in his sixth year NEWTs class, speaks up. "Because roses are romance. Even if you don't like them, you know they're considered romantic. And if you need will for it to work, then it's already there."

"Exactly, Eckersley. Well done." Draco writes it on the board. "Ten points to Ravenclaw. With that knowledge, what other ingredients do you think could be used in love potions?"

They soon start throwing ideas at him, and as he writes them down on the board, he has to wonder what Snape would think of his teaching style, and what a love potion tailored to such a man would look like. Probably dark wool, pond scum, and lilies. His amusement dims, and he misses the man with a sharp, familiar pang.

"Now that we've thought of some ideas, let's open our textbooks and see how close or far off they were. I want ten inches on why the ingredients listed are fit for love potions and why some of your guesses weren't, due at the end of the week. You're welcome to take this time to get started. Feel free to work in groups, and I will be available if you have any questions."

There are some groans at the essay assignment, but the class calms down quickly before splitting into smaller groups, their conversations focused and filled with genuine excitement. Love potions always get the students going. At their age, they're all obsessed with the emotion, and Valentine's had just passed. Draco learned the hard way his first year that teaching love potions _before_ the holiday resulted in at least one mis-brewed potion getting slipped into someone's food or drink, and he'd adjusted Slughorn's lesson plans after that. Now, he hits the theory first, then the practical application and brewing, and manages to avoid too much trouble because of it.

A few minutes before class ends, Dankworth puts his hand up. "Professor, I've got a question for you."

Draco makes his way over, then looks at the page Dankworth has his textbook open to. It's the recipe for Amortentia, and his partner, Reed Pinnick, is frowning. "What is it?"

"Well," Dankworth begins, "Reed _and_ the book _and_ you say that Amortentia is the strongest love potion. But wouldn't a custom-brewed potion be stronger? I mean, if I drank something that was tailored exactly to the things I loved, it would be more potent, wouldn't it?"

"Thinking of Amortentia as 'powerful' is probably where you're having the disconnect. Amortentia, when it is completed, becomes tailor-made for anyone. The smell of it changes for each person, becoming something seductive and unique. It will be a blend of everything you've ever found attractive or desirable. That means that, unlike a specifically-brewed love potion, Amortentia can be used on anyone, at any time, without any need to learn the details of your victim's likes and dislikes."

"Victim?" Pinnick's face twists into confusion.

"Yes, victim. All Amortentia does is create a powerful infatuation, almost an obsession, in the person who drinks it for the person who gave it to them. It steals their will and ability to consent, so administering it is effectively an assault against them. Love potions are seen as harmless by most people, but real harm can be done by them. The Dark Lord's mother used it to ensnare his father, and look what came of that union."

Pinnick and Dankworth's faces are pale. "Oh."

"Indeed. Love is a dangerous thing, boys. It can control you, twist your desires to suit someone else's. Don't let the sheen and shine of it trick you into complacency."

While Pinnick nods along, enrapt, Dankworth seems hesitant. "Are we still talking about potions, Professor?"

"Of course. What else would we be discussing?"

Dankworth looks back at his textbook and nods. "All right, then. Thank you, Professor Malfoy."

"Good luck with your essays." Draco raises his head to the rest of the class. "Unless you'd prefer studying here, you're all dismissed early. I've had Madam Pince put some resources aside for you all, if you'd like to relocate to the library to work."

Most of the students start packing up their things, still talking about Amortentia and what they each think it might smell like, but Dankworth hangs back until everyone else has left.

"Yes, Mr Dankworth?" Draco asks, halfway through erasing the blackboard.

"I wanted to know if, maybe, I could start my NEWTs project early? Rather than waiting for next year?"

"I guess that depends on what you'd like to do."

The young man's eyes light up. "This idea of customising potions to the person taking them. I want to see if it applies to other types of potions, other than the emotional ones. Like if I brew a Pepper-Up, but added the patient's favorite hot pepper instead of the standard one, would it be more effective?"

"It's an interesting theory." Draco leans against his worktable. "Would you want to look at healing potions specifically?"

"I'd probably have to brew some of the emotional ones," Dankworth says meekly. "Just to understand the theory."

"You'll have a chance at Amortentia this term. Why don't you brew two versions, one following the standard recipe and the other with adjustments to best fit who you're dosing. When they're finished, we can test them against each other and see how the changes impact the potency."

"How would we test them?" Dankworth looks appalled. "You said it was assault to give someone Amortentia."

"I'm sure Professor Longbottom has some dog violets in the greenhouses. He usually keeps them around. And if he doesn't have those around, we can find some beetles to test on. It'll be enough to see if the potion's effective."

Shoulders easing, Dankworth smiles. "That's a better idea than what I had."

"What? That I'd dose you or vice-versa?" Draco grins wryly. "I'm pretty sure the Headmistress would toss me out if I suggested giving Amortentia to a student."

"Right, of course." Dankworth smiles hesitantly. "But you think it's a good idea?"

"I think targeting medicine to the patient isn't something that's been thoroughly investigated in the potions making world, and, if it has any merit, could be revolutionary. It's a brilliant idea, Mr Dankworth. You should be proud of yourself for considering it."

He flushes as he grabs his bag. "Thank you, Professor."

"Have a good evening, Mr Dankworth."

"You, too."

Draco goes back to wiping down the blackboard, pondering the idea of customised brews for individuals as he does so. Dankworth's obviously not the first person to think of it, considering the lecture Draco had given about love potions, but he doesn't think he's ever read of that same technique being used in other potions categories. Knowing what he does of Muggle chemistry and how that also comes into play with potions brewing, Draco wonders if a brewer's state of mind could also have an impact, their will manifesting in the finished product. Mind racing, he turns to his work table, searching for parchment so he can write his thoughts down before he loses them.

"You look busy," Potter's voice says from the doorway.

"Just a bit. Let me get this down." Draco pulls a roll of parchment from his desk, fingers fumbling on his quill as he quickly scrawls a handful of notes onto the page, the words lacking any kind of organization other than the way his jumbled mind has somehow visualised the connections between Amortentia, chemical bonds, and will. His hand slows, then he adds a final notation to the page. "There. Now, how can I help you, Potter?"

"I wanted to go over the plan for this weekend's match," he says, still leaning in the doorway. His ankles are crossed easily, weight on his right leg, his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers with his robe open around him. He's wearing a dark grey sweater that should deaden the glow of his skin and the brightness of his eyes, but, instead, it makes them both more striking. Draco swallows, then nods.

"Of course. Do you have any questions? Concerns?"

"No, not really." Potter stands in the doorway and walks into the classroom before pulling up a seat. "Just wanted to make sure I understand the game plan."

Draco resists the urge to go sit next to the man and pulls up the stool he usually teaches from and sits. "You'll want to be at the pitch about an hour before game time. I'll walk you through checking the balls for any tampering spells or damage. If we find anything, there's a backup set that we'll use instead. You'll greet the captains in the center of the field, let them get to places, and then throw the Quaffle. Once that's done, do your best to stay out of play, and if your leg starts acting up, send the signal and we'll trade out."

"Do you think we'll have time to stretch before?"

"Are you feeling stiff?"

"Yes." Potter looks away, cheeks flushing. "It's been a little bit worse lately."

"It's likely the cold. I've got some salve that might help, give me a moment."

Draco ducks into the storeroom and finds the small green glass jar containing a muscle rub he'd concocted a few years back. He mainly uses it for his hands—brewing potions can put a lot of stress on the muscles and tendons—but it'll work for Potter's leg just as well.

Potter catches it when Draco tosses it to him. He unscrews the cap, then sniffs it experimentally. Eyebrows raised, he dips a finger into it. "What's it do?"

"It's a poison."

Potter's eyes widen and his hand freezes. "What?"

Draco manages a straight face for all of ten seconds, then he bursts into laughter. "It's a warming balm, you idiot. If I wanted to poison you, I'd be much more subtle about it. Here."

Draco stands next to Potter and takes the jar from him. Scooping out a bit of the sweet-smelling cream with his finger, he holds out his other hand for Potter's. Hesitantly, the other man extends it, palm up, and Draco starts rubbing the salve into Potter's calloused skin.

"You should feel it rather quickly," Draco says as he continues to massage it into Potter's skin. "It doesn't take long to work, especially where there are more nerve endings."

After rubbing a few more circles into Potter's palm, Draco's fingertips start to heat up from the salve. He takes his hand away, gets a bit more of the balm, and rubs it around his own hands, working it in. Potter opens and closes the hand Draco had been holding. After a moment, Potter's eyebrows lift. "You're right. That does work fast."

"Just make sure you wash your hands thoroughly before handling more… ah… _delicate_ parts of the body, if you catch my meaning. It feels nice on your hands, but trust me, it's not nearly as pleasant elsewhere."

"Good to know." Potter grins. "It'll be fine for my thigh, though?"

"Keep it to the outside, and you'll be okay."

"Thanks, Doctor." Potter takes the jar and closes the lid. "Are you on your way to dinner?"

"In an hour or so, I think. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering if you were busy."

"I've got some things to get ready for class tomorrow. The third years are starting work on the Confusing Concoction, and I need to make sure they're all capable of casting a _Confundus_ , or we aren't going to get anywhere with it."

"I was shite at that one," Potter says morosely. "I still haven't managed to brew it right."

"Do you want to give it a try now?" Draco asks, nodding towards the storeroom. "I've got the supplies ready to go, and I need to make a sample for class."

"Really? Are you sure? I'm pure crap at potions."

"I'll redirect you when you inevitably screw it up." Draco smiles. "Unless you're scared, Potter?"

He snorts. "That hasn't worked for years, Malfoy. Try another."

But when Draco turns, laughing, to the storeroom, Potter follows after. Grabbing _aqua vitae_ , scurvy grass, lovage, and sneezewort, Draco sets out a cutting board and a sharp bone knife. "Start by cutting the scurvy grass into thin strips while I get the _aqua vitae_ boiling."

While he sets his pewter cauldron on the burner and adds the water, Potter holds the knife and frowns down at the grass. "Malfoy. They're _already_ thin strips. It's bloody grass."

"Cut along the center of the blade, Potter," he says with a shake of his head. "If you don't get the surface area lowered, it'll take twice as long to brew."

"This is going to take forever," Potter says before taking the tip of the blade and running it down the middle of one piece of grass. Draco checks the heat under the cauldron again, then bumps his hip against Potter's.

"Shove over." He takes the knife, sets it down, then makes a small stack of grass. With the entire length of the blade, he presses down, rocking it gently from the tip to the back of the knife, splitting the pile into two, even parts. "Now you finish the rest."

"Yes, Professor." 

Draco does his best to not laugh at Potter's put-out tone, then grabs another knife and starts mincing the sneezewort into small, uneven bits.

"Why couldn't I do that?" Potter asks as he puts another stack of grass together.

"Because it requires little to no skill, and you're here to learn."

"I'm wounded, Malfoy. Gutted."

"If you're not careful with that knife, that'll be literal. Didn't they teach you how to handle weapons in Auror training?"

"Stuck to wands, mostly. Bit of hand-to-hand, but not much."

"And I know for a fact you never paid any attention in potions class," Draco says before setting his pile of sneezewort and knife to the side. "Here, let me show you. I swear, you really are bloody useless at this, aren't you?" Draco grabs Potter's hand around the knife handle, then adjusts his grip. "You want to hold the knife further up along the blade. Get your pointer finger alongside and your thumb opposite. The handle needs to be resting more in the heel of your palm."

Potter shifts his grip, following the gentle pressure of Draco's over top of his. "Like this?"

"Yes, much better. Curve your other fingers around the handle, yes, just like that. That hold gives you much better control." Draco lifts the knife and Potter's hand, then sets it onto the small pile of grass. "Now, press forward with the tip and ease the blade back." It slides through the grass easily, and Draco nods, pleased. "There you go. You're not a completely lost cause after all."

He looks up, smiling until he catches the heated expression in Harry's eyes. It hadn't occurred to Draco until this moment that this isn't one of his students, but a full-grown man, one that Draco desires to the point of pain, and now, they're standing so close that Draco's chest is nearly touching Potter's back, their arms lined up together, hands clasped over the weight of the blade. Draco can feel Potter's breath, an almost imperceptible warmth against Draco's lips, and as if they're both thinking it, Potter's eyes dip to them, his own parting.

"Malfoy," he says softly. "What…"

"I don't…"

Harry's leaning in. It's a minute shift of his body, the weight going from his left to his right leg. His shoulder touches the center of Draco's chest, his mouth drawing closer, and Draco thinks he's going to drown in the green of Potter's eyes, so dark and deep, they're like the Forbidden Forest, a place to get lost in, a place filled with wonder and danger.

"Draco!" Minerva's voice rings out in the classroom, and Draco drops Harry's hand like he's been burned. Stumbling back, Draco nearly knocks into his cauldron, and with frantic hands, he rights it, thankful that the pewter hasn't heated to the point of scalding as he presses his bare hands to the metal.

"I'm back here," he shouts, voice strangled as he takes another step away from Harry and takes his hands from heated pewter. "I'm just…"

Draco finally looks at Potter, and the frustration and anger on his face is enough to still the words coming from Draco's mouth. Potter sets the knife down on the board and turns, limping out of the storeroom and past Minerva, who looks between the two of them in open confusion.

"Whatever is going on?" she asks, walking to the storeroom.

"Confusing Concoctions," Draco says. "I was showing Harry… I was showing Potter how to brew one."

"Well. Apologies for interrupting, but I need to talk to you about something rather important."

"I… Minerva, I apologise, but can it wait? I need to…" He turns off the flame, starts putting the ingredients back. "I need to go after him."

"Is something the matter?"

"No, no, everything's fine, I just…"

Minerva frowns. "I interrupted something important, didn't I?"

"I…" Draco runs his fingers through his hair, the sound of Potter's limping footsteps echoing back into the classroom. "I just need to talk to him."

"I think you might be better off waiting, Draco," she says, apologetically. "He didn't look like he wanted company."

"It's probably for the best," Draco says, though his chest hurts with the lie. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

Her forehead wrinkled, mouth turned down slightly at the corners, she shakes her head. "I don't think it's important right now. Are you okay?"

"Yes. Yes, of course. I just..." He looks at the materials spread out on his work table. "I need to finish brewing for class tomorrow."

"You're sure you don't want to talk about it?"

"When do I ever want to talk about things, Minerva?"

She sighs. "I'll leave you to it, then. But I do need to talk to you soon. Privately."

There's a niggle of fear in his chest, but it's overpowered by the sense of disbelief and sick anticipation that's lingering from Potter's abrupt exit. "Of course, Headmistress. Have a good evening."

She takes a hesitant step out of the storeroom, then pauses as if to say something more. Instead, though, she looks away and hurries from the room. Draco can hear her footsteps echoing down the hallway outside, fading in the same direction that Potter's had.

Finally alone, Draco curses and shuts the door to the storeroom before pressing his forehead to the wood. He can still feel the heat of Potter's hand under his, the press of his shoulder against Draco's chest, and the hint of breath across his mouth. And Potter's eyes…

He'd wanted it. He'd wanted to take that inch of space between them and close it, had wanted to press his mouth to Draco's. And if Minerva hadn't arrived, they would have. Draco wouldn't have been able to stop Potter, wouldn't have been able to stop himself. His heart is racing and his blood is hot in his veins, and that banked flame of desire is roaring through him like a conflagration. Shaking and shaken, Draco fights to calm the raging need in his body, but it's overwhelming. He _aches_ , and he hates it.

Panting against the wood, he forces himself to calm. He takes deep, even breaths, eyes closed as he slows his pulse. And when he's finally able to pull away, to step back to his workbench and the barely started potion, he does his best to not feel the phantom weight of Potter's hand beneath his when he picks the knife up again and begins cutting grass, the thin blades splitting down the center just like he is.

* * *

The snow is nearly melted by the weekend, and parts of the pitch are visible through the white when Draco walks out from the stands. The crowd is slowly gathering, everyone wrapped in heavy robes, jumpers, and scarves. After checking his warming charms one more time, Draco searches once more for Potter, but fails to see him.

He's barely seen the man since the ill-considered potions lesson earlier in the week. Though Draco had tried to get him alone to talk, Potter had made sure to keep at least one other person around when Draco approached. It had led to more than one awkward exchange, Potter unable to meet Draco's eyes, and it's left a knot of anxiety in his stomach. Walking back into the stands, Draco figures he'll make one more lap through the building and if he can't find Potter by then, he'll have to call Hooch in to replace Potter. She'll hate it, what with the cold, but Draco can't officiate a Slytherin match, and with Potter seemingly nowhere to be found, there's no other choice.

He rounds the corner to the equipment room and immediately gets the game chest in his gut. Breath pushed out in an undignified gasp, he grabs at it, eyes watering, as he fights for breath.

"Oh, fuck, Malfoy." The chest falls to the ground, Bludgers rattling angrily inside, and Potter grabs at Draco's arms. "Are you all right? I didn't see you."

"If I can remember how to breathe, I'll be fine," he gasps before choking down a breath. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

"Sorry." Potter sounds and looks genuine, his smile a bit self-deprecating. "I lost track of time."

"We'll have to skip the stretches and rush through the equipment check," Draco says, taking a step back so that Potter's hands fall away. "There's barely time for it before the match starts."

"Ah, about that. I actually had Hooch give me a hand. Earlier."

It's like the breath's been knocked from him a second time. "Of course. She's just as capable..."

"Sorry, I just… I didn't think, after…"

"It was nothing, Potter," Draco snaps. "You don't have to make a show of it."

"I'm sorry, I thought from the way you reacted the other day that you wouldn't want me anywhere near you."

"You misread the situation, then," Draco says, unexpected anger still rippling through him. As if Draco has any right to Potter or his time and care. This is why Draco doesn't let himself do this, why he avoids entanglements. He'd learned his lesson with Longbottom already.

Potter glares at him. "Well, I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven." Draco grabs the equipment trunk, then turns towards the pitch. "Let's get this out to the field before the captains arrive."

"Draco, wait!" Potter grabs his elbow, stopping him. "I'm sorry, honestly. I… I overstepped, and I shouldn't have, and…"

"I already told you. It's fine. Nothing happened."

"No, it didn't."

Potter looks disappointed, and it does nothing to ease the confusion in Draco's chest. "We've a match starting."

"Sorry," Potter says again, dropping Draco's arm and trailing after him. Draco does his best to not feel Potter's eyes on him, but if his hands weren't full of the trunk, he'd be rubbing at the nape of his neck, trying to wipe the phantom touch of them away.

As they step onto the field, Draco turns and offers the trunk to Potter. He takes it, then looks nervously around the stands.

"You really think I can do this?"

His obvious nerves calm Draco's mood, the need to protect this man washing away the rest of his annoyance and anger. "You're going to do fine."

"And you'll be here, if I need you?"

"Yes, of course."

Potter nods, his hands tightening on the handles of the trunk. "Well, better get it over with then."

"You'll be okay, Harry."

Harry's smile sends a lance of pain through Draco. "Thank you."

Fading to the edge of the pitch, Draco watches Harry stride into the center of the field as if he owns it. Though he favors his right side a bit, he doesn't limp, even in the snow. The stretches and strengthening exercises have done their job, and Draco's trained Potter as best he can. Nerves make Draco's palms sweat, but if Potter is feeling anything similar, it doesn't show. He smiles at Hawkins and Bivens, the group of them too far away for Draco to hear him explain the rules to the two captains and tell them to shake hands. They do, then hurry to their brooms, breathes forming clouds around their pink-cheeked faces.

The moment before Potter gets on his broom, he glances over his shoulder at Draco, as if looking to him for strength or support. Draco does his best to smile without any of the nerves showing through, and he must be convincing because Potter returns the expression before mounting his broom without a trace of fear and rises into the sky, Quaffle tucked under his arm, checkered robes flapping about his legs, the game about to begin.

Honestly, the match is a blur for Draco. He's only vaguely aware of play, his mind noting where the players are and how the teams are doing, but not paying enough attention to actively call anything, even the most egregious penalties. Instead, his eyes are locked on Potter, who's calling the game like he was born to it. His eyes dart around the field, catching fouls almost as soon as they occur. He looks comfortable, confident, no sign of his leg troubling him, even as the game drags into a second hour. 

The Slytherin team keeps a respectable lead, but when Parslow reaches through a goal hoop to stop the Quaffle from scoring, he's benched for fifteen minutes, and Ravenclaw capitalises on the unguarded goals, scoring ten, then twenty, then thirty points, even as Routledge and Chatten do their best to hold them at bay. It's narrowed the lead enough that, should Ravenclaw come up with the Snitch, they'll move up in the House standings.

As Ravenclaw scores for a fourth time—Hawkins shouting at Parslow to watch his left, for Godric's sake—their Seeker comes streaking towards Draco. Knowles's eyes are trained on the air about twenty feet in front of Draco, and as Draco draws his gaze up, he catches the glint of gold, and knows that his team is fucked. Cursing silently to himself, he watches Knowles capture the Snitch as if it was waiting for him and then circles the pitch, arm held above his head in triumph.

But even through the disappointment of the Slytherin loss, Draco can't help but feel elated. Potter quickly wrangles the Bludgers with the help of the Slytherin Beaters and meets Knowles halfway around the pitch to pluck the Snitch from his victorious grasp. If his leg is bothering him, Draco can't tell. Instead, he moves easily through the sky, as if he's meant to be up there as much as the clouds or birds.

When he lands near Draco and the equipment trunk, his cheeks are stung red from the cold hair, his eyes bright, and his smile infectious. "I did it," he breathes out before pressing the Snitch into Draco's hand. "I did it."

"You did." Draco can't help himself from smiling back, and he opens the trunk so Potter can finish securing the rest of the balls. "You did phenomenally."

"I can't believe it." Potter laughs. "I didn't think… Since I was hurt, I haven't… Christ, Malfoy."

The stands are emptying quickly, the cold weather encouraging everyone inside. Even the players have fled, likely on their way to their common rooms and the warm fires there, ready to be surrounded by celebratory or conciliatory friends. "We should get inside," Draco says, turning towards the stands. "You must be freezing."

"Actually," Potter says, and the easy joy in his voice has Draco turning back. "I'd like to fly a bit longer, if that's all right?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"I don't know. It seems… frivolous."

"You just watched fourteen teenagers fly around on brooms, chasing after various spheres for two hours. This place is a temple to frivolous things."

"If I didn't know how much you loved the sport, I'd think you hated it."

"Good thing you know, then." Draco sighs. "I guess I'll see you at dinner, then."

"You don't want to fly?"

"I… Do you want me to?"

Potter seems affronted. "Why wouldn't I?"

"You're angry at me."

"I'm not angry at you." He shakes his head. "I was… It's not important, but I'm not angry at you. Do you want to fly?"

Swallowing, Draco nods. "Yes. Let me get a broom."

Potter's smile is as effective as an _Incendio Maxima_ , filling Draco with fire. There's only a moment of reprieve as he ducks inside to grab his broom, and then he's awash in flames again as he approaches Potter whose legs are confidently straddling his own broom, hands wrapped around the handle, eyes locked on Draco.

"Lead the way," he says, throat tight, and rises into the air, Potter trailing after him.

It's nothing like their other flights together. There's no racing around the pitch, competitive natures coming to the forefront. They don't jockey for position in the air, don't see how fast they can get their brooms to fly. Instead, Potter seems content to take lazy laps around the field, a quiet smile on his face, eyes glancing in Draco's direction time and time again, only to dart away as soon as he catches Draco looking back.

It's gentle in a way that Draco is coming to realise might be the other side of the coin of their friendship. While they rile each other up, both knowing exactly what buttons to push to make the other incensed, there's also a peace that seems to come creeping in when he least expects it. It was there as they wandered the halls of Hogwarts, in Hogsmeade when Potter passed him a book full of fantastical stories, in the soft light of sunset and the silence over a cup of tea and chocolate biscuits.

That same feeling, the one he can't bear to put a name to yet—if ever—grows in his chest, and though he tries to keep it from his face, he's overwhelmed by it and by the desire to do something, anything, to keep Potter safe from it.

But he must not be doing a good job, because when Potter looks his way again, he doesn't stop when their eyes meet. The moment stretches, and Draco has to do something to break it, to stop it before it becomes too much. Minerva won't be here to intervene, and Draco's too afraid of what will come after if either of them takes one more step forward, off the edge into something neither of them are prepared to handle. He wrenches his gaze away, then descends quickly, unsure of what he'll say if Potter follows after, if he asks any of the million questions running through Draco's mind.

He expects Potter to call out for him, to try and stop him from leaving, but instead, he lands, too, then catches up to Draco as he hesitates at the door to the stands.

"I'll take care of the trunk," Potter says, hand outstretched. "Head back to the castle, I can put your broom away."

Uncertain what Potter's level voice and still expression mean, Draco holds the broom out. There's a wide expanse of handle, literal feet of wood that Potter could wrap his hand around, but instead, he places his palm directly over top of Draco's fist, his fingers wrapping around Draco's knuckles gently. The leather of his fingerless gloves is cold, but his flesh is warm, and Draco feels the touch in every one of his nerve endings. Eyes locked, expression unchanging, Potter pulls his hand away, trailing his fingertips through the divots of Draco's knuckles and fingers, a threat and promise all at once.

"Sorry," he says before clasping the handle further up, far away from Draco's hand.

Fingers numb, Draco drops the broom and Potter takes its weight easily. Draco feels unsteady, and when he takes a step back, he thinks he might stumble. But Potter doesn't move, doesn't say anything, just stands there, still and watchful as Draco goes inside, running from the heavy weight of understanding in green eyes.


	14. Chapter 14

If their exchanges in the potions storeroom or on the Quidditch pitch have had any lasting impact on Potter, it's not obvious to Draco. The gossip in the hallways is more about the upcoming end of term exams and the shifting lead for the House Cup, nothing about Professor Potter or Professor Malfoy and their supposed relationship.

Though that's not precisely accurate. Draco _is_ overhearing things about Potter, but none of it is gossip. Instead of the criticism that had been present throughout all of the first term, the students seem to finally be warming to him. The incident with him, Hagrid, and the kelpies has managed to do something that half a year's acquaintance hadn't. It's turned Potter from a war hero to a human, and a fallible one at that. It seems to have loosened something in the man, too, and when Draco makes his surreptitious laps past the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, he's more likely to hear bright voices and laughter, and Potter's pure tenor cutting through it all with confidence and command. Draco hadn't been involved in Dumbledore's Army, had only hunted it through the castle, but he imagines it must have been like this, with Potter in a place he belongs, surrounded by people who want to learn from him and bask, for a moment, in his presence.

He stops going past Potter's classroom after that, unwilling to risk stepping through the doorway to watch the change in the man.

After Draco stops lurking outside the DADA classroom, though, he realises he's running into Potter less and less frequently. Where earlier in the year, he'd been happy to avoid the man, convinced he was either going to arrest or kill Draco—perhaps both—now, when he goes looking for Potter, he's nowhere to be found. They still eat most meals together or with Hagrid seated between the two of them, but those conversations are mild and polite, not anything like the intensity of their interactions in Hogsmeade or the ease of their times spent studying or talking about Quidditch. Potter doesn't seem any different than he had been before. He's still friendly and full of smiles for Draco, but in the few moments that they spend together, Draco's convinced there's a distance building. 

He should be relieved since it means the pesky emotion he's been ignoring for the last handful of months doesn't have anything to feed itself from. But now it's turned itself inward, gnawing at Draco's gut for sustenance instead. And after a handful of months spent not tossing and turning because of Potter, Draco's horrified to find himself staring at his bed hangings late into the night again, wondering what's going on and whether it's something he should stop.

As for Draco's classes, they, blessedly, continue to go well. Dankworth's experiments with Amortentia are extremely interesting, if only because he has to tailor the recipe to a tray of flowers. The dog violets have taken to barking whenever Draco comes into the classroom, though, and he has to cast silencing charms throughout the day or run the risk of his thoughts being drowned out by their surprisingly loud yaps.

So far, Dankworth has narrowed down the violets to enjoying fertiliser, especially bone meal, and sunlight. He's been puzzling over how in the world he's going to get that added to the potion—Draco refuses to tell him—but it keeps the young man busy and gives Draco some time to focus on his own new side project, a customised version of the warming balm he'd given Potter a few weeks before.

He doesn't have the formulation finalised by the next match, but since Potter is only observing, rather than officiating, Draco is content that his base balm will do. As Draco greets the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff captains, he can feel Potter's eyes on him from the edge of the field where he's standing with Madam Hooch, both of them watching from the edge of the pitch rather than the stands.

March has brought warmer weather with it, and as Draco rises into the air to throw the Quaffle into play, he's thankful that he doesn't have to keep so many warming charms going. Even small ones keep his attention split, and he enjoys Quidditch much more when he can put his full focus into the game. Today there's only the slightest bit of a breeze, and it's refreshing and cool rather than biting. He glances to both teams, nods, then lofts the ball into the air and descends quickly, attention focused entirely on play.

Whatever coherency the Hufflepuff team found while facing off against Ravenclaw, it's missing today. Their Chaser core, normally a well-organised group, is missing passes left and right, with Allred leading the charge. Even when they do get themselves in order, Dalton and Colegrove—the Gryffindor Beaters—are precise with their hits, constantly harassing the Chasers across the field.

When Benson takes a particularly hard hit from a Bludger, a blow that has him reeling on his broom, bent forward over the handle, Allred calls a timeout. It's only a quick five minute break, but both Draco and Hooch fly over to the still panting Hufflepuff, now landed in the middle of the field, still bent over, to check on him.

"How's your chest?" Draco asks. "That Bludger got you hard in the side, and if you cracked a rib, we're going to have to take you out of play."

"I'm fine, Professor," he gasps, clearly in pain. When he spits, it's flecked with blood. "Honestly, I just had the wind knocked out of me."

Potter comes hurrying from the sidelines, wand in hand. "Let me take a look. I know a few field diagnostic spells that'll help."

A moment later, golden-white mist comes from the tip of his wand to encircle Benson's chest. It quickly starts changing color, turning a violent red around the upper third of the young man's chest.

"He's got at least one dislocated rib, though it could be cracked." Potter dismisses the spell and shakes his head. "He's going to need to see Madam Pomfrey."

Benson winces. "What's the team going to do without me?"

"Play Quidditch," Madam Hooch says before wrapping her arm across Benson's shoulders. "Let's get you inside, young man."

Allred comes arrowing towards Draco and Potter, eyes wide with concern and a bit of anger. "Where's he going?"

"Hospital Wing," Draco says with sympathy heavy in his voice.

"We're fucked."

The curse shocks a laugh from Potter. "Knowles could still find the Snitch."

"With the way we've been playing, though, Gryffindor's going to get the lead anyway. Dammit."

"Better get it over with, then." Draco puts his whistle into his mouth, eyebrow raised. "Are you ready to resume play?"

Allred nods, sullen. "Yeah."

"Good luck!" Potter shouts after him as the Hufflepuff goes back into the air, his fellow Chaser yelling with clear concern.

"Can you believe their parents let them play this sport?" Potter asks Draco.

"Not at all." 

Draco mounts his broom, then blows his whistle. It rings out across the pitch, and play begins almost immediately, Allred and Pierpoint receiving the Quaffle and streaking off towards the Gryffindor goalposts in a modified Hawkshead.

Allred might not be flying well today, but he certainly knows the game and how it's going to turn out. Rather quickly, the Gryffindor team's lead grows until even the Snitch won't save Hufflepuff. Though Knowles does come up with it in the end, they still lose by thirty points.

The stands empty quickly, but it takes Draco a long time to wrangle the second of the two Bludgers. By the time he's finished grappling with it and has it stuffed into the equipment trunk, the crowds are gone and Potter with them. Draco tries to not let the disappointment bother him, though when he comes up for dinner after bathing and finds the man ensconced with Creevey at the far end of the table, nowhere near their usual seats, it does. Potter has the decency to give a small wave when he sees Draco, but then he turns back to Creevey, engaged in whatever conversation they're having.

Dinner is a chicken carbonara that would normally have Draco singing the kitchen's praises, but it's tasteless and gluey in his mouth tonight. He pushes the pasta around his plate idly, choosing to focus instead of the lovely white paired with it instead.

"I'd think it's safe to say that you and Harry have yet to talk about whatever it was I walked into the middle of," Minerva says, startling Draco from his attempts to make the noodles into words.

"My apologies, Headmistress. I'm a little distracted tonight."

"Because of our Defense professor, perhaps?"

"Exams, honestly." Draco sets his fork down. "I'm still working out what the sixth years will be brewing for their final."

She looks at him from over the top of her glasses. "Draco. You've known what you were going to quiz them on before the school year started."

She's right, but he chooses not to respond, instead taking another sip of wine and staring listlessly out over the hall.

"Men," Minerva mutters quietly to herself. "Honestly, do I have to lock the two of you into a broom cupboard together?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Of the two of us, I'm not the one being ridiculous right now."

He sighs. "It's fine, really. I'm just not sure where we stand at the moment."

"Talk to him. Brooding over it doesn't seem to be getting you anywhere."

He raises his glass to her and takes a sip. With another sigh, she pushes back her chair from the table and pats his arm gently. "Have a good evening, Draco."

"You, too, Headmistress."

He watches her move down the length of the head table, slipping behind the other professor's chairs until she reaches Potter's. She leans in and whispers something that has Potter's head turning in Draco's direction. Caught watching, Draco whips his head forward, doing his best to hope that Potter didn't see him looking.

When Minerva's chair is pulled back from the table a moment later, Potter falling into it gracelessly, Draco wants to groan.

"Minerva says I should talk to you."

"She needs to learn when to leave well enough alone."

"She has a point." Potter coughs. "I've been avoiding you."

Shocked that he'd admit it, Draco turns wide eyes to Potter. "Really."

"Really. It's a bit shit of me, isn't it?"

"Just a bit. I thought you weren't angry."

Potter sighs. "Maybe a little."

"I _knew_ it."

"But not because I _should_ be angry with you. And I know it's not kind of me, but it's been easier to just… avoid you than try to figure out _why_ I'm upset when you haven't done anything."

Draco mulls that over for a moment while Potter sits quietly next to him. After a moment, he nods. "Well, if that's what you need, I understand."

"You do?"

"Yes. Friends give each other space, don't they? If they need it?"

Potter smiles. "They do."

"And we're friends."

"We are."

"Then get the hell out of here, Potter. I don't need you clouding up the atmosphere with your sullen meditation."

"Who said I was sullen?"

"It's part of the look. Cut your hair and you'd tilt yourself into mysterious instead."

Potter huffs out a laugh. "I'll keep that in mind."

He eventually wanders back to the other end of the table, but this time, Draco feels better about the distance. And when he catches Potter glancing his way before they all leave for their requisite rooms, a small, fond smile in place, it's like warming balm spread across the tips of his fingers, pinpoints of warmth dancing through his body.

* * *

As if the end of the term is a black hole, sucking matter into it faster and faster as it draws closer, time seems to warp as the month moves on. March is over almost before Draco realises it, Easter holidays only a week away before he even starts thinking about making arrangements for the two-week break. His mother won't expect him at the Manor—she only makes him stay there at Christmas and to visit for her birthday—and without any concrete plans, Draco pens a letter to Pansy on the off-chance that she and Theo might be around while he's off. He's pleasantly surprised to get a response the next day, Theo's barn owl swooping elegantly through the Great Hall at breakfast, letter clasped tightly in its claw. It settles on the table in front of Draco, and Potter leans around Hagrid's bulk, eyebrow raised inquiringly.

"Who's that from?"

"Theo and Pansy." Draco's already opening the letter, surprisingly desperate to see their response.

_~~Pillock~~ Draco,_

_We will be in London over Easter, if you'd like to join us here. I'm certain your flat is an abysmal mess after being abandoned for the entirety of the school year, but if you can manage to get the majority of the dust cleared by the seventh, you would be delighted to host us for dinner._

_I expect a full status report about your Snitch and any and all attempts to catch it. Do not spare any details, including measurements. Both length and circumference, please and thank you. I've a bet going, and I'd like to make a few Galleons while proving a point about the Boy Who Wears Tight Trousers. He keeps it to the right, I'm absolutely sure._

_Theo says get fucked, and that he thinks you should write to him, rather than me, since you at least share a gender. You and I shall have to figure out an appropriate punishment for such nonsense (nothing sexual, please; I'm not sure I can survive another of your aborted attempts to touch my breasts)._

_I have missed you desperately, you fantastic idiot._

_Much love,_

_Pansy_

Grinning widely as he re-reads the letter, Draco nearly misses Potter calling for him. Startled, he lifts his head, still grinning.

Potter responds like he's been smacked around the head. His eyes are wide, mouth hanging just slightly open, and it takes Draco a moment to realise that his bright, open smile has left Potter speechless. He shuts it down quickly, though he can't fully diminish the joy that Pansy's letter has brought him.

"Good letter?" Potter croaks.

"Yes. It's from Pansy."

Potter clears his throat. "Ah."

"I'll be seeing her over the holidays. It's been a few months since we last got together."

He manages a genuine smile. "That's great news. Do you have anything special planned?"

"Other than a deep cleaning of my flat and dinner, no. But she and Theo will be in London for Easter, and that means we'll get into some sort of trouble, I'm sure." His grin breaks through again. "It'll be brilliant."

"Do your best to not get arrested, please."

"Why? I'm friends with one of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's greatest. I'm sure I can call in a favor."

"You know that Ron's still an Auror, right? If he picks you up…"

"I will tell him that you'd be very cross with him for arresting me, and he'll let me go." Draco sniffs. "Honestly, Potter. You'd think you'd know these things."

Potter laughs and turns back to his breakfast. "I'll give him a warning, just to be safe."

Tea cup in his hand, Pansy's letter rolled back into a tube, Draco sniffs. "You're no fun at all."

* * *

With something to look forward to, the week drags on interminably. His mood must be infectious because every one of his classes is a disaster. Dankworth's modified Amortentia manages to kill an entire tray of dog violets, both he and Draco shocked by the cloud of smoke that immediately starts rising from the soil around them, which starts bubbling as if liquid. It's the first time that Draco uses the De-Extinguisher in the classroom, and while it makes every single burner in the room go out, it also stops the violent exothermic reaction wreaking havoc on the plants. The poor things don't even have a chance to yowl in pain, the sudden heat on their roots enough to kill them instantly. Dankworth is horrified, but Draco thinks it's for the best, all things considered.

"We'll start over when classes resume," he tells Dankworth while clapping a hand on his shoulder in commiseration. "Best note what you changed in the potion so we can avoid it next time around."

"Yes, Professor," he says, disheartened but diligently pulling out his notebook to cross out peppermint and anise.

In Draco's fifth year class, Robinson not only knocks over his cauldron, but Routledge's as well, creating a pool of half-brewed Invigoration Draught that leaves the pair of them filled with reckless energy. Draco has to throw them into the hallway, ordering both of them to report to the Hospital Wing to wait for an antidote, but they take off running down the hall, laughing uproariously instead. Filch finds them a few hours later, heads stuck in one of the railings of the moving stairways, still laughing as he greases their hair to get them back out.

Draco doesn't have any afternoon classes on Friday, and as the fourth year students finish bottling their Wit-Sharpening Potions, his foot taps insistently on the floor under his worktable. If any of the students notice, they don't comment, instead focusing on the task of getting their classroom materials put away. As they finish, they excuse themselves, trickling into the hallway until Draco's left with Selwyn and Butrum, the two of them both finished with their potions but, for some unfathomable reason, dawdling.

"Ladies," Draco finally asks, interrupting their harshly whispered conversation. "Is there something you need?"

"Oh, Professor." Selwyn swallows. "No, nothing, sir."

"You're both excused, then. Have a pleasant holiday."

"Actually," Butrum says, then immediately grunts as Selwyn puts an elbow in her gut. "Lord, Artica, did you have to hit so hard?"

"That's how you do it."

"Well, you should've said somethi—"

"Girls. If you'd please."

Butrum, rubbing at her stomach, flushes. "Professor Potter asked that you come to his classroom before you leave for the break. Sir."

"And you couldn't have told me this at the beginning of class, why?"

Selwyn winces. "We forgot. Sorry."

With a sigh, Draco nods. "Consider your message delivered. Now, please, if you could gather your things. I'm sure you're both excited to go home for the break."

"We're staying here, actually," Selwyn says as she grabs her things. "Lyndall wants to take the extra time to practise before our match with Hufflepuff."

"You think you'll need it?"

Butrum shrugs. "You never know with Hufflepuffs. They can sneak up on you."

"Then I hope the practices improve your performance. They're up by, what? Twenty points?"

"And that's only in Quidditch. They've got us beat by thirty-five for the House Cup."

"Five points, each, to Slytherin," Draco says with a wink, "for getting the hell out of my classroom."

Grinning, they both grab their things and hurry towards the door. "Yes, Professor!"

Chuckling to himself, he finishes putting the room in order before locking everything up and heading towards the DADA classroom. He knows that Potter's got a class, but it's sixth years, so Draco doesn't feel too bad about interrupting.

The door to the room is shut, so Draco knocks loudly before opening it. The sixth year DADA students are spread across the room, paired off and in dueling stances, and Potter is at the front of the class, already heading towards the door.

"Professor Malfoy," he says, eyes bright and startled. "What're you doing here?"

"Misses Selwyn and Butrum said you wanted to see me before I left for the holidays?"

Potter frowns. "Not that I'm not happy to see you before you go, but I didn't tell them that."

Meddlers, the lot of them. "Well, I'm heading out shortly. I'll see you after the break."

"Would you…" Potter flushes, looking back at the class full of students who are clearly watching their exchange with interest. "Let's step into the hallway."

Draco makes room in the doorway for Potter to walk past, then closes the door behind him. The moment before it seals, he can hear a low murmur pick up inside, and he's very thankful, indeed, that it's Potter's class and not his, and that he'll be able to avoid answering whatever questions are currently being asked inside.

"When you get back," Potter continues, "would you like to grab dinner? Together?"

Draco frowns, amused. "We eat dinner together most nights. That's how communal dining tends to work."

"No, I mean…" Potter runs his hand through his hair, looking embarrassed. "I mean just the two of us."

"Dippy owes me a goose," Draco says. "This might be a good chance to get it."

"So, I'll see you then. For dinner." Potter smiles cautiously.

"For dinner." Shaking his head, Draco starts opening the classroom door. "I don't know when you got so weird about this friendship thing, Potter. It's almost like you've never eaten a meal with someone before."

"Ah." Potter's expression freezes. "Friends. Yes. Of course."

Draco stills. "You are… It _is_ a friendly dinner, yes? You're not still angry?"

"No, no. I'm not upset anymore. I, uh… I think I figured it out."

Relief sweeps through him. "Well, that's great, then. Now, I must get my things together. I'll miss my portkey if I don't hurry."

"Sorry," Potter steps towards the now open door to the classroom. "Have a good break, Malfoy."

"You, too, Potter."

It's not until he's halfway through packing his valise, clothing shrunk and stuffed haphazardly inside, that Draco realises with dawning horror that Potter might have, maybe, possibly, perhaps meant something other than a friendly dinner between friends.

* * *

When Draco arrives at his flat, he's delighted to find it absolutely spotless, though he's not entirely sure _why_ that's the case. He hadn't hired a cleaning service at the beginning of term, and he hasn't been here for more than a quick stop in since February. But the surfaces gleam, all of his dishes are done, and the linens on his bed are fresh and clean and let off a faint smell of lavender when he tosses his valise on top of the duvet.

After he unpacks, he finds a small note sitting on his nightstand.

_Profesor,_

_Dippy had other Hogwarts elfs make your home tidy. Dippy hopes it makes Profesor hapi. Profesor should be more hapi. Dippy will keep trying._

_Dippy_

"I'm going to marry her," Draco says to the empty flat. "I am going to marry a house-elf."

Touched beyond words, he puts the note on his mantel piece, though he knows it will likely confuse anyone who looks at it later, and makes himself a simple meal before curling up on his couch with a good book and falling asleep there, halfway through a chapter where the heroine is waiting for the hero to rescue her from an illogically high tower.

* * *

Draco's Easter holidays are, perhaps, the most sedentary thing he's done in the last five years. Instead of taking the trouble to wander through London or pop in to the local apothecaries to say hello and catch up on the latest potions theories, he puts on a pair of extremely comfortable pyjama bottoms and loafs about for the entirety of the first week. He reads three new novels and one of his old favorites, and then spends the weekend going through the illuminated fairy tales that Potter bought him in February. It is, perhaps, a bit indulgent of him when he traces his fingers along the cover, trying to remember the way Potter's hand fit around the spine of the book, but honestly, he's on holiday. Draco's allowed to indulge.

And he does. He takes long, luxurious baths. He eats rich food and drinks expensive wine. And while his nights are spent, at least partially, worrying about the not-friend-dinner that Potter's invited him to and the way the man had looked at him while covering Draco's hand on a broomstick, for the most part, he's able to forget that he's halfway in ill-advised love with Harry bloody Potter.

But evenings are the worst for it. Draco's sheets drag across his skin as he shifts beneath them, and when he trails his fingers across his chest, he has to fight the urge to pretend they’re Potter's instead. With his eyes closed, he can so easily sink into fantasy, and though he fights the desire to do so, he fails, time and time again, and finds himself with his hand wrapped around his prick, dragging pleasure from his body while pretending it's Potter's touch, Potter's hands, Potter's body that does it instead of his own.

* * *

Pansy sends an ornate invitation for lunch on Saturday. It's lacking in detail, only saying _Diagon Alley, the new place, no sign. Ask for Pierre_ and nothing else. With a sigh, Draco puts on one of his nicer outfits—silver silk waistcoat, inky black trousers, snow-white shirt—and grabs a set of heavy dress robes to throw over the lot. With his cloak on, he's overly warm, but figuring he'll be able to shed most of the bulk at whatever restaurant Pansy's picked out, he puts up with it for the short Apparition to Diagon.

The streets aren't too crowded today, most of the wizarding world choosing to stay home in preparation for the next day's festivities. Draco wanders up and down the street, checking for an establishment with a fresh coat of paint and no identifying markers. He eventually finds it, a small blue and white painted storefront with a gorgeous display of fresh bread in the window. The smell of yeast and baking wafts out as he steps inside, and, taking a deep breath, he looks around for Pansy and Theo.

They're seated in the back corner, and even though Draco sees them and they see him, Draco's stopped almost immediately by one of the most stereotypically French men he's ever seen. His hair is slicked back, thin handlebar mustache curled at the ends, and he wears disdain like a specialty cologne.

"Monsieur," he says, nose already starting to lift. "We are not yet open to the public. Reservations only."

"Are you Pierre?" Draco chances, wishing he'd thought to bring Pansy's note with him.

"Who I am is inconsequential, sir. It is only who _you_ are that matters."

"Draco Malfoy," he says, trying to match the man's imperious tone. "I've reservations with the Notts."

"Ah, yes. Of course. One moment, sir."

Draco watches as the waiter, presumably Pierre, walks to Theo and Pansy's table and leans in conspiratorially, gesturing back at Draco and nodding his head sagely. Pansy is fighting to keep a shit-eating grin from her face while Theo, impassive and imperious, nods along with Probably Pierre, as if he can't bloody well see Draco standing by the door. Teeth gritted, propriety keeping him in place, Draco waits for Pierre to accept whatever information the pair has given him and return.

"I do apologise, Monsieur, but there is no one here by that name."

"You righteous bloody fuckwads," Draco shouts out across the empty restaurant. Pansy starts cackling. "I hate you both."

"It's him!" Theo shouts out, his voice musical and full of glee. "My apologies, Pierre."

"May I show you to your table?" Pierre says, bowing slightly as he gestures towards Pansy and Theo.

"No, you may not."

Draco walks sedately over to the table where Pansy has her head pressed to the surface, shoulders shaking, as Theo stands up and greets him with a hug filled with laughter and warmth.

"I've missed you, you prat."

"You, too, arsehole," Draco says into his shoulder, chest tight. "But if you try to pull this kind of crap again…"

"You'll figure out a way to make it twice as bad the next time." Theo slaps him on the back, then gestures to the third chair at the table. "Make yourself comfortable, mate. I know for a fact that Pansy plans on interrogating you over the starter."

"I will do no such thing," she says, brushing tears from her eyes. "Hello, Draco, darling."

"Hello, Pans. Good to see you again."

"How was your week?"

They spend the next twenty minutes catching up, Theo filling Draco in about his business ventures on the continent and Pansy talking about her philanthropy in the UK.

"There are still so many war orphans," she says quietly, her normally expressive face somber. "It's the least we can do, all things considered."

Draco tries not to think too much about his own family's involvement, but he makes a mental note to send a cheque to the organisation that Pansy's working with. Every little bit helps, after all, and the donation he's planning on isn't quite that little.

"Now," Pansy says as soon as the main course—a Basque-style hake with green peppers and Manila clams, served in a white wine sauce with fresh bread on the side—arrives, "how big is Potter's dick?"

Theo chokes on his wine, but Draco, expecting the question, finishes his sip and sets his glass gently on the table. "I have absolutely no idea."

"You liar," she says, gesturing with her fork before taking a delicate bite. "You know exactly how big it is, and I have a bet to win."

"Pansy, my darling, I don't know what it is you think I do at Hogwarts, but let me assure you, learning the dimensions of Potter's genitalia is not part of it."

"I'm disappointed in you," Theo says to his wife. "I thought you'd wait longer."

"He's been here for twenty minutes. I think I've exercised more than a modicum of restraint."

"Perhaps." Theo nods to Draco. "Don't hold back on my account. I'm the one who's betting it's under eight inches."

"Good lord." Draco looks at Pansy, aghast. "How big do you think it is?"

"At least ten," she says with a certainty that leaves him uncomfortable. "But that's not the point. You're the one with first-hand knowledge."

"I am not."

"I thought you were trying to get him into bed." Theo looks to his wife, confused. "You told me he was trying to bed Potter."

"I said that he _wanted_ to bed Potter, not that it was his goal in life."

"Hold on for just a moment," Draco says, hand held up to stop them from speaking any further. "Who said anything about bedding Potter?"

"Darling." Pansy sounds like she's talking to an infirm person or someone of an advanced age. "You and I both know that's where this was going."

"It's going no such place."

She scoffs. "Really? _Really_?"

"Honestly, Draco"—Theo looks apologetic, at least—"from what Pansy has been telling me, it seems like the two of you are about to finish whatever dance it is you've been participating in for the last… I dunno, seventeen years?"

Draco takes a bite of fish, unwilling to respond. Sensing his annoyance, Pansy's expression softens. "Draco, I know you care about the man. He'd be an idiot to not care about you in return."

"We're just friends, Pansy." The words come out sounding more upset than he'd like them to. "There's nothing there."

"But there _could_ be," Theo says. "I know you, Draco, and you can be absolutely oblivious when it comes to other people's interest in you."

"I know when someone's interested in me."

"You didn't pick up on any of mine when we were in school."

"What?" Draco and Pansy shriek in unison.

Theo waves them both off. "It's all in the past. What's more important is that if Potter wants in your pants, you're more than likely going to miss the signals."

"But he doesn't… I don’t…"

"Oh, you most certainly do."

"Okay, fine, maybe I do, but it's not that cut and dry."

"Walk me through it, then," Pansy says, leaning back in her seat, wine glass perched in her fingers like a delicate bird.

Draco opens his mouth to speak, then pauses. Running through his interactions with Potter over the last handful of months, he slowly realises that he, maybe, doesn't have a leg to stand on in this argument.

"I…" He coughs. "Okay, you may have something."

"Aha!" Pansy sits up. "Spill."

"He may have tried to kiss me." Draco stares at the table, poking at his fish. "And he put his hand on mine."

"Oh Merlin, start sending out the wedding invitations," Theo drawls.

Pansy kicks him under the table, hard enough that Draco can hear the thump. "Shut up. What do you mean he tried to kiss you?"

"We were standing close together, and he leaned in, and…"

"And?"

"And Minverva came in before anything happened. It's just… It's been awkward ever since."

"Salazar, Draco, you sure know how to make things difficult for yourself, don't you?"

"He wants to have dinner," he blurts out, irritated and off-center. "When I get back."

Pansy raises her eyebrow. "And what, exactly, does dinner mean?"

"A meal between friends?"

"Keep telling yourself that."

"Theo, hush." Pansy places her hand on Draco's wrist. "Darling, what do you want?"

He closes his eyes and remembers the feel of Potter's hand under his, the way the man had brushed his fingers through the valleys of Draco's knuckles, the bright shock of his smile from across the Quidditch pitch or the head table. Draco thinks of their easy quietude and the fierceness of their competition, the desire to be close and to be in opposition, and the way that Potter's hair falls artlessly over his forehead, hiding his scar and his eyes and his intentions. With a groan, Draco shakes his head.

"I don't know."

Quietly, she squeezes his hand, gentle and understanding. "I think you do, love."

Like always, Pansy is right, but she doesn't push. Instead, she shifts the conversation to Theo's burgeoning business, leaving Draco to work his way through the delicious meal and choke on whatever the future holds for him and Potter.

* * *

The second week of his break passes in a similar manner to the first, except that Draco puts on real trousers and leaves his flat for more than the post and the morning paper. He makes a tour of the Diagon Alley apothecaries, checking for new stock and publications, before heading into Muggle London and the myriad chemists shops to be found there. A few of them cater to magical populations, though they don't really know that they do. The _Confundus_ charm is a very versatile thing, and Draco appreciates the other potioneers in the London area who take advantage of the poorly-written laws about its usage to procure Muggle supplies. He’s not willing to risk it himself, but there are enough potions brewers in the area meddling with Muggle minds that Draco can get the supplies he needs without arousing any suspicion or casting anything more exciting than a Notice-Me-Not charm.

Of course, with how quickly his break has passed, Draco is forced to process what, exactly, is waiting for him back at Hogwarts. The not-friendly dinner with Potter looms on the horizon, and as Saturday draws near and Draco has to ready himself for a return to the castle, he keeps imagining more and more ludicrous scenarios with Potter and a shared meal, and all of the ways that it could go horribly wrong—escaped Death Eaters rampaging through the school—or horribly right—Draco, spread out across the table with the cutlery, Potter sprawled over top of him like a coat of paint. 

Whatever the scenario he imagines, though, it can only lead to disaster. Draco's learned the hard way that letting himself care for people usually only results in awful things, and adding Potter to the mix is a surefire way to guarantee destruction.

When he eventually returns to the school, he finds his rooms almost exactly the way he left them, with the exception of a small folded piece of paper on top of his dresser. When he opens it, Potter's scrawling handwriting covers the page.

_Seven PM. My quarters._

_HP_

So much more straightforward than Pansy's missive, but so much heavier at the same time. Draco runs his thumb over the letters, feeling their impression in the parchment like a phantom touch. Shivering, he puts his things away and gets dressed, putting on his favorite old jumper and a faded pair of black trousers. It is, after all, a simple dinner between friends. There's no need to dress up.

There are a handful of students wandering the halls as he walks to the West Wing, but other than friendly waves, they don't pay him much mind. Somehow, their disinterest makes Draco's nerves worse. He brushes at the front of his jumper, suddenly feeling self-conscious about the obvious pilling and second-guessing his decision to go casual. Before he has a chance to turn tail, though, the door to the Potter's rooms opens.

"Hey, Malfoy." Potter smiles. "You look nice."

Compared to Potter, Draco doesn't look like much of anything. He's also gone for casual, but where Draco looks lightly rumpled, Potter looks calm and comfortable. He's wearing a baggy forest green jumper that makes his eyes glow and a pair of Muggle jeans that look like they've been painted onto his strong legs. Draco does his best to not let his gaze linger on Potter's right side as he draws his gaze back up to Potter's face, equally as devastating as his body.

"Thank you," he manages. "You look nice as well."

Potter's smile turns to a smirk. "Now that the pleasantries are over…"

"Oh, shove off," Draco says, irritated and embarrassed. "I hope you have wine."

"And whiskey," Potter says with a laugh as Draco steps inside. "How were the hols?"

"Good. Pansy and Theo say hello."

"I highly doubt that."

Draco opens Potter's liquor cabinet and comes out with glasses and alcohol. He pours for Potter first, manners taking precedence over his desire to dull the edge of his anxiety, and then for himself. Hand outstretched, he passes Potter his glass.

"Thank you." Their fingers brush when Potter takes it, and Draco realises the touch is intentional. It sends frissions of heat darting through him, and he takes a drink to hide his reaction.

Potter's transfigured the low table and chairs before his fireplace into a sedate dining set in dark wood. There are two place settings and, between them, a large metal serving platter covered in a dome.

"You didn't actually ask her for a goose, did you?" Draco turns to Potter, eyes wide.

Potter's laughing. "No, but I thought it'd be funny to make you think I did. It's a roast, same as what they're having in the Great Hall."

Draco huffs, but makes his way to the table. "I'm not sure why you went to the fuss of all this if we're only going to have what they're serving everyone else."

"Sit down and eat your dinner, Malfoy." Potter's smiling as he settles across from Draco. "How was London?"

They fall into easy conversation, interrupted only by the quiet sound of cutlery on ceramics. Potter keeps accidentally bumping his boot against Draco's, and Draco keeps accidentally drinking every time it happens. The liquor in his stomach blends with the heat in his veins, and by the time they've finished the meal, Draco is thoroughly soused and no longer subtle about the glances he keeps giving Harry or the way he leaves his foot exactly where it is when Potter's brushes against it.

"Thank you for dinner," Draco finally says, his words only a little slurred. "It was lovely."

As their plates vanish from the table, Potter leans forward to refill Draco's glass. "I enjoy your company."

Eyeing the very full tumblr, Draco gives Harry a pointed look. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"

He laughs. "I think I've succeeded, if that was my goal."

"I'm not drunk."

"You're not sober."

Draco hums, then takes a sip before he realises he probably shouldn't. "I've got some Sober-Up in my rooms." Pushing away from the table to stand on slightly unsteady legs, he smiles at Harry, who's looking up from the table at him as if Draco were some precious, ridiculous thing. It makes him sigh, and the sound escapes before he can stop it.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Harry comes to stand next to Draco. "That didn't sound like a good noise."

Draco isn't sure if he's slouching or if his observation skills have been slipping, but as he looks slightly up into Potter's eyes, he wonders how he's never noticed that the man is just a bit taller than him. "You're taller than me," he says, annoyed.

"Not by much." Harry takes a step closer. "Maybe an inch or two."

"I don't remember you being taller than me."

"I wasn't aware you were paying attention to my height."

Draco swallows. "It's nice."

"It is." Harry's hand lifts and brushes a bit of hair from Draco's forehead. "This is nice."

Draco swallows, heart racing, as Harry's hand doesn't pull away, but rather curves around Draco's jaw, fingers soft and questing. There's a question held in their roughened skin, a request that Draco can read in Harry's eyes, one he shouldn't give an answer to. But before he can think, before he can regret, he shifts just slightly closer, and when Harry leans in, green eyes half-lidded and closing, Draco lets himself be kissed.

Draco expected Harry's kiss to be hard and bruising, to be a solid thing that he would crash against and be destroyed by. But instead, it’s like warm blankets tucked around him as he falls asleep, or snow settling across open fields and wrapping dormant green in white. Harry holds Draco’s jaw steady in his hands like porcelain, like Draco is a delicate thing only slightly more opaque and fragile than glass. His lips, though they command and control, do not coerce. They draw Draco into the kiss as a willing participant, as an equal. He’s burning as he stands there, cradled in Harry's hands, pressed against his body, shaped and thrown and fired until he comes out as something new, transformed by Harry's touch. It’s everything that Draco has ever wanted in a kiss. It’s full of promise, of desire, of a future, and though his heart screams out for Draco to take, to give in, to surrender, he forces himself to put his hands over Harry’s—always, their hands coming together to push each other away, even when they want to drag each other close—and pull them from his face.

Harry doesn't pull away, just curls his fingers across Draco's. He presses his forehead to Draco's, kiss-reddened lips curved into a quiet, content smile. "I didn't… If someone had told me at the beginning of the year that we'd be here, right now, I would've called them insane."

"Harry."

"Please," Harry says, cutting Draco off. "Before you do something to stop me or say something to make me want to hate you again, let me talk. I don't… I've always wanted someone who could understand me, someone who knew me and didn't get caught up in all of the… Saviour bullshit. I wanted someone to see me for _me_ , even all of the dark, nasty parts, and"—green eyes filled with fire and hope meeting his—"you see me, Malfoy. Draco. You _know_ me. I want…"

"I can't." His voice is shattered, broken like china on the floor. "This… we can't…"

"Why not?" The question is quiet, but harsh. "Why can't we? I _care_ about you, Draco. I want you."

Draco has to slam his eyes shut, unable to think clearly with those words echoing through Potter's quarters. "I'm not something to be had," he forces out. "And want isn't enough, not for me. It's too… You saw my boggart, Potter. You know what it means, why I'm afraid… And I can't… If I opened a cupboard, and you came out, I don't think I could…"

Harry hushes him, then presses forward for another kiss as soft as grief. "You wouldn't. _I_ wouldn't."

Draco shakes his head and steps away, Harry's hands falling from Draco's skin to hang, limp, at his sides. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

"So, what then?" Potter gestures between the two of them. "What do we do about this?"

"We stay friends." Draco feels frantic. "I want to be your friend, Harry."

"And if I can't do that? If it's not enough?"

Draco swallows. "Then… Then you leave at the end of term, and we both go on with our lives."

"And you'd be happy with that?"

"No, but I'll live."

The silence that falls between them is a jagged thing, full of broken glass and salt. It hurts the longer it draws out, the longer it cuts into Draco's heart.

"I need you to go. I need…" Harry runs a hand through his hair. "Please."

Draco nods, chest aching as if Harry's cut him open a second time. But he's not the only person wounded now, so he doesn't linger or press Harry for more, just heads to the door and out into the hallway, closing it softly behind him.

When he reaches his rooms, it's to find Minerva heading down the hallway towards both them and him, her expression serious. He doesn't want to see her, doesn't want to see anyone, honestly, but he can tell that there'll be no escaping this conversation, not unless he turns tail and starts sprinting down the hallway, and there's no way to do that and hold onto any of his remaining dignity.

"Minerva."

"Draco. I've been looking for you all evening."

"I was indisposed. I'm sorry. What can I help you with, Headmistress?"

Frowning, she gestures towards his door. "Let's go into your rooms for this."

"Just have it out, Minerva."

Her back straightening, she gives him a long, considering look. "I want you to become head of Slytherin House."

His mouth falls open, but nothing comes out other than a quiet rush of air.

"I can tell this is coming as a surprise. But you are considerate, caring, and have a good rapport with the students, especially those in Slytherin House. I trust your judgement, both as an educator and as a man. Having watched you grow over the last four years, I don't think there would be anyone better suited to the position."

"I don't… Minerva, I…"

"Don't give me an answer right now. Aurora let me know tonight that she's planning on retiring and wants to start lessening her administrative responsibilities leading into it. I'll need an answer from you before term is up, but there's still months left, no need to rush into a decision. But I want you to think about it, Draco." She smiles at him softly. "Don't immediately discredit it because you don't think you deserve it."

Draco nods, still unable to process anything that's happened in the last thirty minutes of his life. "Thank you, Minerva. I will… I'll let you know."

"Have a good night, Draco."

He steps into his rooms, closes the door, then leans back against it. A moment later, his knees give out, and he slides down to the ground, landing hard on the cold floor. His head drops forward to rest on his knees. He places his arms over top of his head, eyes shut tight, and takes in a deep, shaking breath. He'd like to think he's reeling from Minerva's request, but he can still taste Harry on his lips, can feel his too-gentle touch on Draco's jaw, can hear him asking questions Draco doesn't know the answer to.

Draco knows his response isn't exactly rational. He's never been good at love. After all, he loved his father with a devotion that still has him missing the man, even though Lucius is dead and gone and his legacy a dark one. Even though his father had twisted Draco's love for him into a noose, Draco still loves him.

What he feels for Harry is somehow worse. This rope is made of silk and satin, a soft, delicate thing that will snap his neck as easily as any other. Even knowing the risk of it, Draco wants it. He's standing on the cusp of love, balanced on a razor's edge and ready to fall. Gravity pulls him forward, wants to drag him down until he crashes against the ground, broken.

Draco wonders if breaking will feel good, if Harry's the one to do it.

But, no. What he said earlier—that he would hate himself, hate Harry, if he became Draco's worst fear—is true. He's been manipulated by love before, and he can't go through it again, not when he wants to give in so much.

He forces himself to down a sleeping potion at two in the morning, his eyes gritty with exhaustion and mind spinning with conflicting desires. A few moments after he swallows it, he's washed into oblivion, though even there, he's haunted by green and the feel of rough hands gentle on his skin, something in him already cracking apart.


	15. Chapter 15

The clockwork mechanisms of Hogwarts and learning have little consideration for Draco's slow and complete mental breakdown. Classes continue, students keep nearly killing themselves, and, outside of the shelter of his rooms, Draco has to pretend like his personal life isn't imploding. Even though he desperately needs a moment to think, it's too close to exams and the end of the year for him to find enough moments to cram together into a reasonable amount of time to come to terms with everything. So, instead, he goes through the motions of day-to-day life. He prepares for lessons, marks exams, keeps Robinson away from open flames, and after the day ends, he goes to his chambers with a good book and an aged whiskey and gets quietly lost.

His interactions with Harry are muted and infrequent. The man doesn't actively avoid Draco, but he skips meals more often than he had before their dinner for two. If it weren't for Dippy's steadfast dedication to the both of them—she's taken to sneaking Draco's favourite biscuits into his rooms in the evenings, rather than the tiny cakes she'd sent last term—he'd be worried that the man was slowly starving.

Their practices have also stopped by Harry's request. He'd approached Draco in the third floor corridor between classes, students flowing around them like a rowdy tide rushing out to sea.

"Hey, Draco." His hesitancy hurt to see. "I need to talk to you about Quidditch."

"You look like you think I'm going to kick a puppy."

"Well, you never know." Hands stuffed in his pockets, Harry nodded towards an empty classroom. "Do you have a minute?"

They'd stepped inside and before Draco could ask if Harry wanted the door open or shut, he'd started speaking.

"I'm going to start working with Hooch. For the referee training."

"Of course. After… I completely understand."

Harry took a step towards Draco, hand reaching for Draco's before he closed it into a fist and put it against his left leg. "It's not about that. Not entirely."

"You don't have to explain."

"I think I do." He tried to smile. "I'm pretty sure you're thinking the worst possible thing right now."

"That's a rather high regard you have for yourself, Potter, if you think that not watching you fly around a Quidditch pitch is the worst possible thing I can think of."

Harry laughed, which is what Draco had wanted to happen until it did. "I'm glad it won't be a hardship for you, then. But I don't want you to think I'm doing it because I don't want to spend time with you or see you or anything like that. It's the opposite… of that, actually."

"You don't have to say…" Draco swallowed. "I understand."

"Okay. Good." Harry nodded, thumped his fist against his left leg. "Then I'll see you around, Malfoy."

"Have a good day."

And Harry had limped his way out of the room and into the hallway, his off-tempo step a disruption to the flow of the students crowding the hallway.

That'd been their last private conversation, and it's been almost two weeks since. Harry still sits next to him at meals, still makes pleasant chatter over dinner, but he gives Draco space, too. It isn't anything more than what he'd asked for, but it still leaves Draco feeling oddly bereft. He knows he wouldn't have to examine that emotion too closely to understand why he's feeling it, but since he's too busy to do anything but get through classes, he doesn't.

Idle hands are the devil's playthings, though, and Draco forces himself to stay busy. Since he's halfway through the project already, he finishes working on the specialised balm for Harry. It's not too far from his existing recipe, but he compliments the menthol with distilled pine needles and tufted hair grass. This balm has a slightly harsher scent than his original formulation, but as Draco rubs it between his fingers and breathes in the scent, he's hit with a rush of emotion that chokes the air from his lungs. Surrounded by the smell of green and earth, it's as if Harry were standing before Draco, his shoulder pressed against Draco's chest. He quickly caps the jar, tucks it into a drawer, and casts a _Scourgify_ so strong, it leaves the room reeking of lemon and nothing else.

With exams fast approaching, Draco's students have started into their end of term cramming with thorough dedication. His classroom, normally abandoned after the last period lets out, has slowly but surely become the place to study after hours. He's got a mix of first through fourth years scattered to various tables in the room, their textbooks open to various pages, conversations all along the same theme of "oh, Merlin, I should've paid more attention during class," and "I'm screwed." He does his best not to listen in too much, though he makes a few rounds through the classroom to answer questions when someone gets up the courage to ask them. It gives him a reason for avoiding the teacher's lounge after classes end, since Draco can't leave this many unsupervised children around unsecured potions supplies without it being a grave dereliction of duty.

As for his upper classes, Dankworth's stalled on his Amortentia experiments, much to his dismay. The unadulterated variety works exactly as it should. Dankworth smells parchment and sod, something like chocolate cake, and a tang of salt water. As for Draco, the scent of the potion has shifted. Where it used to smell like leather and varnish with a hint of loam, it's now the smell of broom polish, bitter beer, sandalwood, and a hot metallic note that Draco knows from previous experiments with alchemy as melted gold. The first time he breathes it in, he knows exactly who that scent belongs to, and he has to excuse himself to his private brewing room for a moment in order to compose himself. It only makes things worse, though. Potter's tainted that small space with the memory of his hand on a knife, and his body leaning closer to Draco's, and what used to be a place of refuge is now just another reminder of a thing that Draco wants but is unwilling to have.

Draco's so wrapped up in his own mind and classes that he barely notices the lead up to the Slytherin - Hufflepuff match. The Houses are neck-and-neck in the standings for the House Cup, and Hufflepuff only has a marginal lead for the Quidditch Cup as well. A win for Slytherin will put them in the finals for the Quidditch Cup and push the House into the lead for overall points. Every one of his Slytherin students are vibrating with nervous energy leading into the weekend. Selwyn and Butrum are constantly talking to each other throughout lessons, either about Quidditch or about Quidditch practice or about the upcoming Quidditch match. Draco has to reprimand the pair of them twice on Tuesday. During Friday's final class, he has to take points and send the two of them to Minerva's office after Selwyn manages to light her sleeve on fire during a rather vigorous demonstration of a blocking move she'd learned from the latest issue of _Quidditch Times_. Draco had used the De-Extinguisher to put the flames out, the heavy weight of it in his pocket a nearly forgotten normalcy at this point. After, he'd tucked it into a drawer in his worktable and tried not to feel off-balance without it bumping against his leg as he walked.

Saturday dawns bright and warm, a gorgeous May morning that beseeches people to come outside and enjoy it. But while the rest of the school answers its call, Draco shuts the curtains on his four poster and sleeps long into the morning. He's woken up thirty minutes before the match begins by Hooch's Patronus, a lynx that has the same yellow eyes as its caster.

"Get your arse down here, Malfoy," is her eloquent message. He sends a reply back to her that he's ill and won't be attending, and only feels a twinge of regret that he won't be cheering on his House. The thought of Potter on a broom, confident and happy, and only there because Draco helped him to it makes his chest ache, and Draco would rather be miserable in private than where everyone in the damned school could see.

Hours later, there's a hesitant knock at his door. Draco's managed to put on respectable clothing—or at least trousers—so he answers it without thinking to ask who's there first. Hawkins is certainly startled to see his Potions Master in an oversized and threadbare jumper with a faded pair of jeans on, and as Draco realises that he's likely lost any and all authority over him in that moment, Hawkins frowns, surprise turning to disappointment.

"Hooch said you were sick."

Draco fakes a cough.

"You'd think a Slytherin would be a better liar. Good evening, Professor."

"Wait, Lyndall." Draco steps into the hallway after him. "I'm sorry I wasn't at the match."

"We won." He sounds disappointed about it. "The whole team really wishes you'd been there to see it. Sent me to find you and wish you good health."

He winces. "Seems to have worked."

"Why weren't you there?"

"It's not about you or the rest of the team, I promise."

"Is it Professor Potter again?"

"No."

Hawkins nods, as if Draco had agreed instead. "I thought so. He was looking at the stands an awful lot today. Couldn't figure out why until I realised you weren't there."

"Lyndall."

"I don't get it."

"That's because you're a child."

"I'm eighteen," he says with the gravitas of the almost-adult. "I graduate at the top of my class in less than a month. What isn't there to get?"

"It's complicated, and I'll not discuss it with a student."

"Fine." He shrugs as if he's unaffected by it, but Draco can tell the dismissal stung. "If you don't want to talk about it, don't. But we all think you're both being idiots."

"You're getting awfully close to insubordinate, Hawkins."

"That's never been a problem for you before."

They glare at each other, Draco stood in his doorway, Hawkins stood in the middle of the hallway, neither of them giving any ground.

"I will see you in class next week. You've your NEWT exam to prepare for."

Hawkins storms away, and as Draco watches him leave, he's reminded of himself, tearing off into the night after arguing with Snape his sixth year, unable to leave things well enough alone or listen to someone who knew so much more than Draco had.

It makes him feel incredibly old.

* * *

That sense of great age vanished almost immediately when he runs into Minerva outside of her office the next week. He'd been taking a shortcut, trying to hurry to lunch without having to face Harry's friendly distance, but as soon as Minerva steps from the last stair into the hallway, catching Draco as he tries his best to hurry past, she immediately narrows her gaze.

"Draco. If you have a moment."

"I'm on my way to—"

"Fantastic. Come up to my office."

Her arm outstretched towards the entryway, Draco is ushered up the stairs like a misbehaving student. Minerva trails after and, after telling the gargoyle to not let anyone interrupt them, she shuts and locks the door behind her.

"You've got me in your clutches now," Draco says with mock dismay. "Whatever your nefarious plans for me, I shan't give in."

"I really wish you didn't think you were funny."

Deflated, he sinks into the chair opposite her desk. "I'm assuming you wanted to talk to me about the Head of House position."

"Or the weather, whichever you'd prefer."

"May has been lovely, hasn't it?"

She glares. "Have you thought about it at all?"

"Certainly. I've thought about whether the parents of our students will tar and feather me, or if they'll go the torch and pitchforks route instead."

"I think you're overestimating the parent's coordinated dislike of you."

"And I think you're underestimating the still lingering animosity felt towards those of us who took the Mark."

Minerva frowns, but doesn't acknowledge his point or look in the direction of his arm. "The students adore you, Draco. The rest of the faculty respects you."

"Not Creevey. Not Trelawney."

"If you think I give Sybil Trelawney's opinion of people even an iota of consideration, then you are operating under a serious misapprehension."

"But Creevey does hate me, and with perfectly good reason."

"Dennis hates a very many people," she says with a heavy sigh. "That is not a reflection on your character, but rather on his."

"He still has valid concerns about a former Death Eater molding the minds of younger generations, especially one tangentially associated with the deaths of very many wizards not that long ago."

"You're not a murderer, and his concerns are not mine. And"—she looks over the top of her glasses—"I know they're not really yours, either."

He scoffs at that.

"Listen, you brat. What you once were is not what you are now. I wouldn't have hired you if I thought you were evil, and I wouldn't have asked you to take the position if I didn't think you would lead them where they need to go."

"And where, exactly, is that?"

Minerva looks like she's getting a headache. "You have discovered, perhaps better than most, that you can learn from your mistakes. And if there's any message that Slytherin House needs more than that, I can't think of one."

"Minerva," he says with a sigh. "The parents won't stand for it. The governors won't stand for it."

"To hell with them. If I want you as Head of House, and you want to _be_ Head of House, then by Merlin, they can try and stop me and see how well that goes."

Uncertain why his throat is tightening and his eyes are beginning to burn, Draco gives a curt nod. "Thank you, but I'm still thinking it over."

"I'd like to know before the end of term. Please." She rests her hands on the desk, leaning forward. "Bathsheda would be my second choice, but she's also considering retirement soon, and I believe we'll find ourselves having this same conversation in a few years. I don't know if that will influence your thoughts on the matter or not, but you should be aware."

"Understood, Headmistress. May I be excused?"

"Yes, of course." She shakes her head. "You don't have to ask permission to leave."

"Are you sure? I didn't seem to have much choice in whether to attend this meeting or not."

"I am still your boss." Her mouth twitches with a smile. "Now, if you don't hurry up, you're going to miss lunch."

"What about you?" he asks, pausing near the doorway.

"I've got some work I need to do. The house-elves will take care of me."

"Would you like company? For lunch?"

Minerva has never been an unintelligent or unobservant woman. She gives Draco a considering look, then frowns. "Are you avoiding someone?"

"Creevey."

"Right. Not Harry. Did you talk to him? I told you to talk to him."

"I did. We've reached an accord. It's nothing to worry about."

"You only say that when I should worry about something."

"Are you about to start meddling? I don't have time in my schedule for you to be meddling."

She sighs. "All right, I'll keep my hands out of it. But you're sure—"

"I'm sure, Minerva. Potter and I are fine."

"Okay, then. Go on down to lunch. I'll see you at dinner."

"Good day."

"Goodbye, Draco."

He hurries down the stairs and into the hallway, on his way to the Great Hall. As he moves through the hallways, he has to slow a few times as students stop him to say hello or wish him a good day. There's no hint of distrust or disgust in their faces, not even in the upper years, and as he walks into the Great Hall and to the head table, Creevey's eyes are the only ones with animosity in them. Draco's immediately distracted by Harry, who's sitting in his usual seat and smiling fondly at Draco as he walks up to the table, but a part of him starts wondering if, maybe, Minerva has a point.

* * *

As soon as Draco walks out onto the field for the final regular Quidditch match of the year, he swears he can feel eyes on his back. He resists the urge to turn around and check the stands for unruly black hair and stunningly bright green eyes, but it's a near thing. Instead, he does his best to focus his attention on Wright, Gryffindor's captain, and Bivens, Ravenclaw's. The two girls are glaring daggers at each other from across the mid-pitch line, and when Draco steps between them he can feel the residual heat.

This game is all-or-nothing for both of them. Both teams are close enough in the points standings to catch up to Hufflepuff, so whoever wins will go onto the Quidditch Cup final against Slytherin. And with the long-standing rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin, Draco thinks that Wright might have just a bit more impetus to win, though Biven's has been steaming since her team's loss to Hufflepuff earlier in the year.

Whatever happens, it should be an exciting match, and one where Draco will have to keep close watch for fouls.

"Are we ready, captains?" he asks, Quaffle tucked under his arm and the other balls waiting on the edge of the pitch, ready to go.

"Yes, Professor," they both say in unison before glaring again.

"All right, then. Mount up."

The three of them rise into the air gracefully, and then, with a shrill whistle, Draco throws the Quaffle into the air and Bivens dives in recklessly to catch it, nearly crashing into Wright as she shoots past, then throws it to Pickrell, who's waiting nearby. Wright curses quietly, then dashes off after him, the rest of the Gryffindor Chasers joining in as Bivens streaks towards the Ravenclaw goal, her Keepers helmet only half on.

With a sigh, Draco rises higher into the air, following play at a more sedate, though no less focused pace. Almost immediately, he has to call blatching on Early, whose flight path has him heading straight for Steadman, the Gryffindor Keeper. Though she's unperturbed by the fourth year careening towards her, Draco intervenes. With the first foul happening this early in the match, he's going to be in for a long day.

His long day turns into a late evening, with play extending nearly to sunset. Both teams are on a rampage, and he's had to call blocking twice on Gryffindor and once on Ravenclaw. Neither MacLaren nor McCafferty have shown any signs of seeing the Snitch—Draco's spotted it four times—and with the aggression only building between the teams as play continues and the students start running out of energy, Draco's concerned that someone's going to take a bat to the other team.

Thankfully, he's saved when Bivens shouts from the goal posts for MacLaren.

"It's right here!" she yells again, drifting away from the hoops to point to a flashing gold ball, nearly imperceptible in the fading sunlight.

Both sides of the stands erupt into cheers, and MacLaren and McCafferty start racing towards the Ravenclaw goal posts. Draco hurries after, worried about Snitch-nipping or another egregious block, maybe blagging by either team, but it's unwarranted. The two Seekers are too focused on the golden orb fluttering by Bivens to care about anything else, and they're both moving too quickly for any other players to interfere. Neck and neck, they're racing forward, arms outstretched, and their hands nearly touching as they reach for the Snitch, Draco tries to see who's managed to snatch it from the air.

The two Seekers continue flying next to each other, and for a moment, Draco wonders if they've both caught the damned thing. He desperately tries to remember what the rules are for that scenario, but before he can, McCafferty peels away, Snitch fluttering weakly in his grasp.

"Gryffindor has it!" the announcer shouts, a fifth year Hufflepuff with a booming bass voice that rumbles through Draco as he continues speaking. "Gryffindor has caught the Snitch! The final score is 270 to 140, and Gryffindor is moving onto the Quidditch Cup Final!"

Draco twists in the air as he follows McCafferty, waiting for the young man to loop around the pitch and deliver the Snitch to him. As he does, he sees Harry standing in the middle of the Gryffindor stands, his sedate black robes standing out in the sea of red and gold. His eyes are locked on Draco, and Draco feels it like a punch. Nodding stiffly, he wrenches his gaze away and back to the smiling young Seeker, the Snitch already outstretched between the two of them.

"Guess we'll be playing your old House for the Cup," he says with a fierce grin. "And I think we both know who's going to win."

With a forced laugh, Draco takes the Snitch. "I know no such thing, McCafferty. Congratulations on your win."

"Thanks, Professor!"

He falls away, joining the rest of his team on the ground, while Draco retracts the Snitch’s wings and tucks it into his pocket. As he hurries off to retrieve the Bludgers, both of the Ravenclaw Beaters following after them with their bats listlessly, Draco does his best to ignore the eyes he's felt on his back the entire match.

* * *

Exams fall over Hogwarts like a shroud, with most of the students acting as if they're headed to their own funerals. Even the Ravenclaws seem disheartened, their loss in Quidditch seeping into the classroom as bowed heads and less-than-enthusiastic raised hands during the final prep sessions. Draco does his best to get their spirits up, but it's not like he can exactly blame them. He's going to have to test and grade literally hundreds of potions over the course of a weekend if he wants to get final grades done quickly, not to mention submitting everything from the OWLs and NEWTs exams to the Wizarding Examinations Authority.

One of the things he hadn't considered before becoming a professor was just how much work went into creating and administering tests. His own exams and quizzes were tedious enough, especially the grading, but the OWLs and NEWTs take the bureaucracy of examinations to an entirely different level. There are special spells he had to learn that are only taught by specially certified instructors at specially scheduled class times in a specially built building in London. He'd taken them in the lead up to his first year at the school and had to be recertified in them every year since. None of the class materials—or the instructors—had changed since his first year, and at this point, he thinks he can perform all of the requisite spells in his sleep. 

The potions OWL is scheduled for the 4th of June, with the NEWT exam the week after. It gives him just enough time to get the test booklets ready for each, along with the materials and supplies for the practical exams. Tuesday through Friday will be spent testing his other students, with most of them brewing an advanced potion for their year. It's more preparation of materials and procuring supplies, and it takes him all of Saturday and most of Sunday to ready everything. By the time evening rolls around and he puts the finishing touches on the last grading rubric, he's too tired to drag himself to the Great Hall for dinner.

He rings for Dippy, who's happy to bring him a small sandwich and some Pimms—he has to weedle that one out of her, honestly; house-elves have a penchant for it and even with her fondness for him, she didn't want to give up any of her own stash. He eats quickly, then crawls into bed, exhausted.

The fatigue is nothing compared to how he feels at the end of Monday. The written portion of the OWL, which is administered in the morning, isn't that bad for Draco. He casts the Anti-Cheating spells required by the Authority, confirms that every student is using quills and ink he supplied, and lets them at it. They're testing on potions theory, the vast majority of it more theoretical than anything they'd covered directly in class. Draco knows he's given them the information they'll need to succeed at the exam, has pointed them to the right resources so that they can understand the underlying theory behind the various potions he's had them brew all year, but there's more than one furrowed brow in the class, and it makes Draco nervous, just like it does every year.

When the timer goes off for the essay, a low groan washes over the classroom. More than one pair of eyes looks at him as if he's betrayed them, and Draco really wishes he could go over the exams with his students. But there are rules, and he waits for everyone to file out of the room before collecting the spelled booklets where they'd written their papers, casting a final charm on each one to seal it shut until he can submit them that evening.

The class comes slinking back after lunch, even Robinson's usual enthusiasm worn from the morning's essay, and sets to brewing. The Examination Authority gives Draco a bit more autonomy in the selection of the practicum, but not much. He can't assign a potion that they've brewed during the course of the year, and it has to come from a list of pre-approved brews. Draco tasks them with making a Draught of Peace. It's complex, requires multiple additions of the same ingredients at various amounts each time, and goes through a series of color changes that aren't always easy to tell apart and that repeat. Even Draco hates brewing the thing, though he's had to make more than his fair share for Madam Pomfrey and over-extended students.

Watching his students brew is exhausting. Draco's on the edge of his seat the whole time, eyes carefully scanning the room as they separate portions of powdered moonstone and porcupine quills, simmer and stir, the softly reflected color of the potion lighting their faces in shifting shades that, for the most part, look to be correct. Even Robinson is being careful with his setup, moving cautiously around his cauldron as if the thing might attack. And though the Draught of Peace is a difficult, finicky recipe, as the minutes tick by, Draco is pleasantly surprised to see more and more cauldrons emitting a soft, silvery vapor. One by one, his students bottle their finished brews with carefully labeled bottles and set them on his worktable. Robinson is the last one to finish, and when he places his vial before Draco, he meets Draco's eyes with a bright, excited light in his eyes.

"Well done," Draco says before carefully gathering Robinson's potion with the rest. "Very well done."

"Thank you, Professor."

Draco's throat is tight when Robinson leaves the classroom, and as Draco packages up the finished potions, he's happy to see that every single one of them is perfectly brewed.

The rest of the week passes in a much easier, but no less exhausting, blur. The third and fourth years are so incredibly boring about their brewing—no explosions, no fires, not even a dented cauldron—watching them through their final exam feels like watching paint dry, be repainted, and then dry again. Compared to the first years, though, it's a bit of a relief. It's their first big potions exam, and most of them are sweating through it, even though Draco has them brewing a Chilling Cordial. The second years are a little better, but one Hufflepuff does manage to dip his hand into the Shrinking Solution they're brewing, and Draco has to send him off to the Hospital Wing and give him a zero on the exam. It feels a bit harsh, but it's very hard for Draco to award anyone points when their hand is the size of a clementine.

His sixth years are the highlight of his week. They're presenting their various projects, but it's really Dankworth that Draco's most excited for. He brings forth a tray of yipping dog violets and two potions vials, then starts speaking.

"This," he says, holding up the lighter of the two vials, "contains a standard Amortentia potion. If given to the violets, they will immediately focus solely on me." He demonstrates this, and half of the tray stops barking and switches to whimpering, broad purple and white faces turned with adoring eyes to Dankworth. "The second potion, however, is tailored to the violets themselves. It uses bone meal, _aqua vitae_ left infused with sunlight for twelve hours, and phosphorus. Watch the effect it has."

He pours the second potion over the other half of the tray of violets, and they immediately become quiet. Like a field of wheat hit by a heavy gust, they bend forward, petals touching the rich earth beneath them as they draw as close as they can to Dankworth. It's like they want to curl up around his feet, to crowd closer and bask in his presence.

"As you can see, the effect of the potion is greatly amplified." He smiles at Draco. "And I didn't accidentally boil them."

"Well done, Dankworth. We'll talk next year about how you'd like to move forward for your NEWT, but this is wonderful work. I'm sure there are a multitude of other applications you can take this approach to. I'm excited to see where it leads you."

"Thank you, Professor."

Draco takes the violets and places them off to the side, casting a modified _Lumos_ that is a perfect match for sunlight. He'll take the tray back to the greenhouses later, but there's no reason to not let the things get a bit of light in the meantime. They'll be miserable enough once Dankworth leaves.

The other students’ presentations, while good enough to keep them in the NEWTs class, don't give Draco the same sense of excitement he has from Dankworth's project. Whatever the young man decides to do, he'll be phenomenal. Draco hopes that Dankworth will pursue a potions mastery, and, for the first time since Draco started teaching, he wonders if he'd want to take on an apprentice. Something about the idea feels right, and as he watches the violets pine as Dankworth files out of class with the rest of the sixth years, Draco thinks he might.

NEWTs pass almost identically as OWLs had, though the practical task is significantly harder. Rather than being given a potion to brew, the students are given an array of ingredients, cauldrons, stirring wands, and other potions implements, and a list of effects. Using what they have, they need to create a potion that will give the taker a sense of euphoria for ten minutes, followed by childlike joy for five, then a deep sense of lassitude for twenty. Points are deducted for any effects not on the list, for the timings or order of the effects being off, and for any dangerous side-effects.

Like most years, it's a bit of controlled chaos. Draco isn't allowed to intervene, but he sees more than one brew going in the wrong direction, and when it comes time to sample them, he has to stop one student from drinking theirs.

"I'm pretty sure that'll kill you," he says with a commiserating smile. "Here's hoping the essay went all right."

But once everyone is finished, and the potions are tested, and the results documented, and the room cleaned, Draco can, finally, relievedly call his fifth year of teaching done. He slouches over his work table, takes a deep, tired breath, and pushes himself to standing. It's been a while since he's had a chance to relax outside of his chambers or his private workroom, and the teachers’ lounge should be empty, the other professors still working on their own exams. Thinking fondly of the large, overstuffed armchair in front of the main fire and the ever-present copy of that day's _Prophet_ in his hands, Draco hurries to the lounge, ready to put his feet up and celebrate a rather successful year of teaching.

And if the teaching is the only thing he can look back on fondly—at least for now, this close to the deserved heartache and confusion of his friendship with Harry—Draco can be satisfied with that. He's done well, and, for the time being, it's enough.

Unfortunately, the teacher's lounge is full to bursting with faculty. Draco stills in the doorway, hand clenched on the doorknob in surprise. If there's ever a crowd in the room, it's four or five professors at most, but everyone must have finished their exams or given up on getting any further work done before dinner. Taking a quick headcount, Draco realises that almost every teacher is present, except for Minerva.

"Malfoy!" Longbottom calls for him from the corner of the room where he's sitting on a sofa. "There's a bit of space over here, if you want to join us."

Draco's already walking that direction before he realises that "us" includes Harry and Creevey. And while Harry looks pleased at Draco's arrival, Creevey looks like he's going to murder Longbottom. It's the first time they've ever been in agreement.

The "bit of space" is also a joke. There's about half a cushion left on the sofa, and if Draco were to try and wedge himself in it, he'd have the entire length of his thigh pressed hard against Harry's, who's sitting in the middle of the couch and not-so-subtly elbowing Longbottom in the gut.

"Thank you for the kind offer," Draco says, not meaning a word of it. He sits on the arm of the sofa, hoping he doesn't look as awkward as he feels.

"How were exams?" Harry asks, looking up at Draco in a way that has his stomach twisting with fondness and lust. "I didn't hear any explosions."

"We managed to avoid them this year." Draco can't help but smile. "And only one student caught on fire. It's a record."

"Really?" Creevey's not talking to Draco. "We're going to do this?"

Longbottom's voice is flat, but stern. "We're having a conversation with a friend, Dennis."

"A friend." Creevey scoffs. "A fucking Death Eater. A murderer."

Harry's expression is dark as he turns his attention to Creevey. "That's enough."

"Of course you're going to say something, Harry. You want to shag the arsehole. It's the only reason you put up with him."

Harry's on his feet so fast, Draco can barely comprehend what Creevey's said, much less Harry's response.

"Out." Harry's teeth and fists are clenched. "Get out before I do something we'll both regret."

"If you want to fuck him, that's on you. I don't get off on getting Voldemort's cast offs underneath me." Creevey shakes his head. "I knew you were fucked up, Harry, but this… This is disgusting."

Longbottom is just barely fast enough to catch Harry as he lunges for Creevey, who stumbles back, eyes wide and surprised. As Harry starts yelling, Longbottom's work-roughened hands and strong arms barely holding him back, Draco gets up from the arm of the sofa and steps between Harry and Creevey, turning his back to Creevey.

"Don't get fired on my account," he says quietly, watching as the anger in Harry's eyes dims with confusion. "You don't have to fight my battles for me."

"Draco, I—"

He shakes his head, cutting off Harry's words, then turns to face Creevey. He doesn't feel nearly as soft as he did when looking at Harry. "Creevey. You have a problem with me."

"You're a killer."

"We both know that's not true."

"You shouldn't be here."

"Perhaps. But I am."

He gestures around the room. "What makes you think these people want you here? That they like you?"

"I don't need them to like me."

"Oh, but you want them to," Creevey sneers. "Don't think I don't see the way you suck up to McGonagall or Hagrid. Or the way you trick the students into thinking you care about them. It's all a lie, a way to get everyone to forget what you were a part of. But I won't forget, and I'll never forgive you or your kind for what they did."

"That's enough, Mr Creevey."

Minerva's voice cracks through the teacher's lounge like a shot.

"Minerva," Draco says quietly.

"There'll be time for you, too, Mr Malfoy. But I believe Mr Creevey here has a point that he would like to make."

"Headmistress, I—"

"The first year that Hogwarts was open after the Second Wizarding War, we had a total of thirty-five students in the Hospital Wing during the first term. All thirty-five of them were either members of Slytherin House or had friends in it. They were all injured mysteriously. Even when threatened with Veritaserum, they refused to tell any of the staff what had happened to them. Unable to change their minds, we sent them back to their dormitories and hoped it was a fluke or the end of animosities. The term after that, we had fifty-seven.

"There were serious conversations about whether or not we would continue the House system at all, though it was finally decided that it would endure. There are many benefits to the Houses, and we wanted the students to have a sense of belonging, especially in the face of intimidation and cruelty from others. We also added additional protections for Slytherins because, even though they were children and had played no role in the War or the fighting or, indeed, the killing, they were treated like criminals and pariahs. But Hogwarts is a home to every person in its walls, no matter their heritage or past, and, eventually, the assaults ended." She straightens her back. "I extend the same protections—and forgiveness—to my faculty, and if you find yourself unable to do the same, then you are welcome to hand in your resignation first thing tomorrow morning. I'm sure we will find someone to fill your slot next year."

"But he—"

"He is a professor at this school, and he is your colleague. He deserves your respect and kindness, not your misplaced anger at your brother's death. It was a tragedy, as is all death in war. But Mr Malfoy did not kill your brother, no matter how many times you say otherwise. Now, Mr Creevey, you are excused."

She sounds so much like when she was teaching that Draco nearly raises his hand to be excused as well. Instead, he holds it tight to his leg and watches as Creevey stands in the silent lounge long enough that Draco thinks he's going to stay. But then, he turns and storms out of the room, the slamming of the door behind him powerful enough to make a portrait of a former professor shake on the wall.

"Now, as for you, Mr Malfoy," Minerva says, turning to face him. His palms sweat, and he locks his knees to stop himself from falling. "You are a valued member of this faculty, and as such, you should not let other members of that same faculty spew hateful garbage at you. I don't know if I have to beat it into you, but Hogwarts is your home, and you have more than earned your place here. If I hear about another incident like this, where you allow someone else at this school to treat you so abominably, I will put you in detention with Filch, do you understand me?"

Draco opens his mouth to respond, desperately trying to think of something to say that doesn't sound like "But, Mother!", but Harry beats him to the punch.

"You shouldn't talk to him that way, either. Draco is… He's a good man. He doesn't deserve to be treated like a… like a child."

"Mr Potter—"

"No, Headmistress," Harry says, though his face is flushed with embarrassment. "If he won't stand up for himself, I'll do it for him. I was going to do it for him"—he darts a hesitant glance at Draco—"before you arrived. What Dennis was saying, none of it's true."

"I'm aware."

"And Draco shouldn't have to listen to anything but the praise he's due, not even from you."

"Mr Potter."

"And I'm sorry, I really am, I shouldn't be shouting at you about it, but I'm tired of seeing him acting like he's not worth anything to anyone, when that's the furthest thing from the truth."

"Mr Potter!"

Harry stills, face somehow going redder.

"I am in complete and utter agreement with you."

"Oh."

"Yes. Now, if you would excuse me, I have dismissal papers to start filling out." She turns to the door, leaving the room at a much more sedate pace than Creevey, but with the same cavernous silence hanging in the air around her. Draco takes a step after, then stops, shoulders straight.

"I'll do it."

She stops, then turns, brow furrowed. "What's that?"

"The Head of House. I'll do it." He swallows. "You're right. They need me. And… and I think I need them."

Her smile is as soft as a mother's kiss at bedtime, the gentle brush of lips against mussed hair and blankets tucked in close. "Of course you do. Good night, Draco."

"Good night, Minerva."

As soon as she leaves, the room erupts into barely-hushed conversation. Draco can't make out most of it over the roaring in his ears. He's going to be Head of Slytherin House.

Oh, Merlin, he's going to be Head of Slytherin House.

"Well done, mate," Longbottom says, slapping Draco on the shoulder and knocking him out of his stupor. "And Dennis is full of shit. I won't miss the back end of him, that's for sure."

"I don't… what?"

Longbottom squeezes Draco's shoulder, smile fond. "You'll be great. They're lucky to have you looking out for them."

"Longbottom. I'm going to be personally responsible for a hundred idiot children. What was I thinking?"

"At least they can't start any fires," Longbottom says, though his expression quickly clouds. "Is there a fireplace in the Slytherin common room?"

Oh, Merlin, they're going to burn down the lake. Draco's going to take charge of the House, and they're going to figure out a way to make water flammable. As he starts to quietly panic, he hears the door open again, and when he looks up, he catches a flash of dark hair as it disappears outside.

"Why is he…" Draco takes a step forward, Longbottom's hand falling from his shoulder. "Where does he think he's going?"

"No idea," Longbottom says with a grin. "Better go after him."

Draco's running before he knows it, decorum be damned. The lounge door shuts loudly behind him, but all he can think of is Harry's retreating back and his fervency, and damn it, why does this school have so many hallways?

"Draco?"

He stops, panting, then hurries back to the T-junction he'd just run past. Harry is standing in the middle of the hallway, hands in his pockets, his expression one of bemused confusion.

"Why did you leave?" Draco asks, breathing heavily.

"I didn't…" He shrugs. "It didn't matter if I was there anymore."

"It did. It mattered."

Harry shakes his head. "No, I said my piece."

"Why did you?"

Harry ducks his head, his chin resting almost on his chest, and with a heavy sigh, he looks back up at Draco and walks towards him. All Draco can see are Harry's eyes, the bright glow of them in the gloomy hallway, the strength of purpose in his expression, the desire he's so desperate to hide. Draco isn't sure when Harry pulled his hands from his pockets, but he reaches up to brush a curling bit of hair from Draco's forehead, tucking it back in place.

"Because we're friends," he says softly. "Because you deserve to have someone fight for you."

"I don't need you to do that."

"But I want to. I need to." He shakes his head. "I was just like Dennis a few months ago."

"You weren't."

"I _was_. Don't forgive me for it because you… We're not kids anymore, and you're not the snotty prat I knew at school. It shouldn't have taken me so long to realise that, or to stay silent for so long after I did." He stuffs his hand back in his pocket, fingers curled before they disappear beneath cloth, as if he's trying to stop the hint of Draco's body heat against his skin from dissipating.

"Harry…"

"Good night, Draco. Congratulations on the Head of House. I'm sure you'll do an incredible job."

He takes a backwards step, eyes still on Draco, before he ducks his head again and turns away, leaving Draco frozen in the middle of the hallway, trying to breathe through the ache of his heart breaking in his chest.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since you've all asked so nicely, here's the rest of the fic early. Hope you enjoy!

With exams finished and students at loose ends, the Quidditch Cup quickly becomes the only thing that anyone is talking about. Draco assumes that most of the other Houses will be rooting for Gryffindor in the final, but in a shocking turn of events, the Ravenclaw team throws their support behind Slytherin, and after a day or two of cheerleading, the rest of the House falls in line. With the school evenly divided between both teams—Hufflepuff is cheering for Gryffindor—meals end up being rather tense, the various tables glaring daggers at each other over roast chicken and potatoes. Thankfully, no one takes the cutlery to each other, but Draco's very ready for the final match to be done and over with, along with the school year, if only to get a break from all of the administrative tasks he's suddenly been saddled with.

Unlike the students, Draco has plenty to keep his mind engaged. Now that he's agreed to the Head of House position, Minerva's buried him with paperwork and procedural manuals. With his new knowledge of the responsibilities that come with the position, Draco's surprised to realise that Snape had been shit at the job. He'd let the Slytherins run wild—or at least as wild as a House filled with stuck-up purebloods could get; Draco's pretty sure their greatest rebellion had been their refusal to use coasters, even on the antiques—and though Draco still loves his former professor, he's determined to do a better job of it than Snape did.

That's the reason he brings his handbook with him to the Quidditch Cup. Since it's a Slytherin match, he's not officiating, and because he really needs to prepare for next year and its new responsibilities, he's sitting in the stands instead of on the sidelines with Hooch. It's easier to read on a bench than leaning against the side of the stands. It's more practical.

It also gives him the benefit of seeing Robinson, decked out entirely in Slytherin green-and-silver, in the middle of a sea of glaring Gryffindor supporters. If it bothers him, Draco can't tell. The young man has somehow created a giant sign with Routledge's name on it that changes colors and has sparks erupting from the corners. Holding it above his head and waving it back and forth, he sends tiny bits of fire over the other spectators sitting next to him. Very quickly, a large hole forms in the otherwise packed stands, and Draco seriously considers casting an _Aguamenti Maxima_ over the young man as a safety precaution. But when Routledge comes out from the locker rooms and rises into the air, she sees him, and the smile on her face is brighter than any fire Robinson might accidentally start.

The rest of the Slytherin team joins Routledge on the field, followed quickly by Gryffindor. Harry, looking devastating even in checkered black and white, floats in the middle of the pitch with the Quaffle, Hawkins and Wright bracketing him. The pure joy on his face as he prepares to start the match makes Draco's breath catch. He hadn't realised how much he'd missed seeing Harry's wide-open smile, and Draco tries to remember if he'd ever seen it outside of their Quidditch practices or that ill-fated dinner together. He doesn't think so, and the thought makes him frown, disappointed that by protecting himself, he's dimmed something so brilliant.

Draco sets his procedural manual in his lap, looking up at Harry as he blows the starting whistle and throws the Quaffle into the air. Though the game is as intensely combative as the Ravenclaw - Gryffindor match, Harry seems unperturbed by it. His seat is confident, his calls precise, and though the sun glints off of his glasses as he trails his eyes after the players moving across the field, the light doesn't seem to bother him in the least. And through it all, he wears that painfully happy smile.

Even though he's preoccupied, Draco's eventually drawn into the game. Slytherin are playing like their lives depend on it. Hawkins circles the field like a bird of prey, his eyes sharp as he searches for the Snitch. Meanwhile, the Chaser core moves as if they have one mind shared between them. Selwyn and Butrum are so in-sync, Draco has a moment where he can't tell them apart, their uniforms, goggles, and distance disguising their features enough that they seem like twins. When the three girls fall into a perfect Hawkshead Formation, then score on the play, Draco's voice joins the rest of the crowd in excited delight.

And they're going to be _his_ next year. It fills him with a fierce sense of pride, knowing that he'll be responsible for them, that he'll be there if they need him. It's almost like the feeling he gets from teaching, but it's more visceral, more intense. Fear plays into it, his mind whirling with doubts that he'll be able to support them like they need or that parents will protest his appointment, but as Selwyn flies past him with a massively smug smile on her face, she waves to Draco, and the fear dissipates in the wake of her happiness.

Gryffindor soon turns the tide, though, taking a twenty point lead that has Hawkins cursing loud enough that Draco can hear it in the stands. The Snitch is nowhere to be seen, and Draco can tell it's weighing on the seventh year, his desperation to win the Cup palpable. Routledge and Chatten pull off an impressive maneuver, knocking both Bludgers simultaneously at Wright as he races towards the Slytherin goal posts. He spins around his broom, inverting so that the Bludgers whizz past him, but as he rights himself, they stop, then come shooting back towards him. He doesn't see them, back turned, and they both plow into him at full force, knocking both him and the Quaffle from his broom.

The crowd gasps as Wright plummets towards the ground. Draco isn't sure when he stood up or when his wand fell into his hand, but he's screaming, " _Wingardium Leviosa_!" before he can even think. But his magic isn't the only one to wrap around Wright's body. From his vantage above the field, Potter also has his wand pointed at Wright, and together, he and Draco ease the young man to the ground. Hooch hurries over to check him over for injury, and Harry pauses play for five minutes. With Wright in good hands, Harry flies to the stands and Draco.

"Nice catch," Harry says with heavy sincerity.

"You, too."

"Guess you never lose those Seeker reflexes, huh?"

"It felt more like terror."

"But we caught him."

"We did." Draco swallows. "You're doing passably well."

Harry laughs. "Thanks. I had a good teacher."

Draco wants to laugh in return, but his throat is tight. "Best get back to it," he manages, and Harry's smile fades, just a little, before he nods and goes to retrieve the Quaffle from the pitch.

Draco nearly calls him back, but stops himself, instead wondering why those words from Harry carry so much more weight than when Draco heard a similar message from others. No one else has said it exactly that way, though, so simply. That's how Harry is. He says what he's thinking, without hiding it in pretty words or sideways glances. He says things like "I wanted you to know it meant something," and "it's the opposite of that, really," and "it shouldn't have taken me so long to realise." He asks "do you want something like that?" and "why not?" and "if it's not enough?" 

Draco can't breathe. He's always forgetting how to breathe around Harry, as if the man has wrapped himself around Draco's chest—his _heart_ —and squeezed all of the air from his lungs. And as Draco turns his eyes back up to the sky, to the man who's finally pushed him off that razor's edge, he realises that he's been falling this whole time, inexorably drawn closer and closer, filled with joy as he rockets to the ground. It's a Wronski Feint in slow motion, and Draco realises with a shaking inhalation that he doesn't have to fear the crash at the end because Harry won't let him, because _Draco_ won't let himself.

He's in love, and it's… It's _okay_.

Draco doesn't remember the end of the match. Vaguely, he sees Hawkins lapping the field, tears streaking his face as he holds the Snitch above his head, the crowd of silver and green around Draco rising and falling in joyous waves. But from that sharp moment of realisation, Draco's only been able to look at one thing, one person, a blur of checkered white and black that Draco doesn't know how to capture and hold close. All he knows is he's going to do whatever he can to grab it and never let go.

* * *

Draco is surprised when Hawkins comes knocking on his door in the middle of the night, though he knows he shouldn't be. Blearily blinking at the obviously inebriated seventh year, Draco fights back a yawn.

"I saw you in the stands," Hawkins says with the strength of purpose that only comes with heavy drink. "You weren't watching."

"Lyndall. What in the world makes you think what you're doing right now is a good idea?"

"You should've been watching."

Draco counts to ten, very quietly and very quickly, in his mind. "I did watch. You caught the Snitch. Slytherin won. Now, you are drunk and standing on your professor's doorstep."

"Not m'professor anymore." Hawkins hiccoughs. "M'graduating."

"Are you so sure about that?"

It seems to get through the alcohol-fueled daze. "Can I not?"

"Not if you show up in the middle of the night, drunk, to your teacher's private rooms, no."

His face pales, then goes green. "Think I'm gonna be sick."

"Oh, Merlin. Shit." Draco looks around his room desperately, then grabs at the half-full wastepaper basket next to his desk. He's just barely able to get it pressed into Hawkin's chest before the young man starts vomiting, face buried in the can.

Which is metal and woven, and therefore does nothing to contain the mess that Hawkins is making of it. The snakes glare up at Draco from the rim as vomit quickly spills out of the bottom and onto the floor.

It seems appropriate for his new role, honestly.

Fighting back an empathetic wave of nausea, Draco soothes the young man through his gasping heaves. Eventually, Hawkins lifts his tear-rimmed eyes to Draco and grins.

"We heard about the Head of House change." Hawkins gags. "You're going to be great."

Draco thinks he's right.

* * *

When Draco walks down to the Hogwarts Express with Minerva this time, it's with a bounce to his step and a lightness in his chest that feels like flying. He hasn't exactly figured out how to talk to Harry about Draco's epiphany at the Quidditch Cup, but the professors are required to stay a day later than the students to finish packing up their classrooms, so he has a bit of time.

He's certainly not avoiding it.

"You seem to be in high spirits," Minerva says with a sideways glance. "Should I ask why?"

"Should you? Probably not. Are you going to anyway?"

"This is insubordination."

"You're just upset that Slytherin won."

She scoffs. "I don't know where you get these ideas, Draco. I cheer for all of our student players, regardless of House."

"Right. That's why you have so many red and gold robes."

"They suit my complexion."

He laughs, simply happy for the first time in awhile. 

"Honestly, Draco, what has happened?"

"It'll take too long to explain, Minerva." He smiles at her fondly. "But you were right."

"Aren't I always?"

"Don't get a big head."

They walk the rest of the way to the station in companionable silence, surrounded by a wave of excited students making their goodbyes. More than one Slytherin approaches Draco to wish him a happy summer, but he's greeted by Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors in equal measure. It warms him, though it fades as he looks around the station for Harry and doesn't find him. There hasn't been a year where all of the professors haven't shown up to see the students off on the final train, at least not while Draco's been teaching here, and he's filled with a mix of worry and dread that Harry is missing.

"Do you know where Potter is, Minerva?" he finally asks, turning to the Headmistress with a frown. "I'm surprised he's not here to see the students off."

"His leg was bothering him after the match, I believe. He begged off to recover."

"Ah, yes. Of course. Thank you."

Draco looks away from her before her too-knowing eyes can read every line of his body like a book in large print. But the joy he'd been feeling evaporates, replaced entirely by a sick feeling in his gut worse than when Hawkins was vomiting on his doorstep.

It is lightened a bit when he sees Routledge and Robinson stepping on the train, hands clasped together. They catch him staring, and though Robinson flushes a bit, Routledge grins widely, kisses Robinson with an absolutely indecorous amount of enthusiasm, then waves before dragging her stunned boyfriend in after her.

"Aren't they sweet?" Minerva says, voice flat. "Teenagers are absolutely exhausting, aren't they?"

"They keep us young."

"You _are_ young."

"As I'm a gentleman, I'll refrain from further comment."

She kicks him, and he does his best to remain stoic. He is absolutely going to have a bruise, though.

When the Express finally pulls from the station, Draco and the other assembled professors waving as it leaves, he waits no more than half a second before hurrying back to the school. The specially formulated balm is still in his workroom and, perhaps, he can use it as an olive branch, a way to start up a conversation Draco doesn't know how to make happen but is desperate to have.

Of course, when he gets to his brewing room, he can't find the damn thing. Exams are such a hectic time of the year, even Draco's perpetual need for organisation in his work spaces gets thrown into chaos. Digging through drawer after drawer, he's about ready to cast an _Accio_ just to see what'll happen, when he finds the green glass jar crammed into the back corner of the drawer where he keeps his stirring wands.

"What the bloody fuck are you doing back there?" he asks with a harsh whisper before pulling the jar out. "Honestly, can you not be where I left you?"

"I don't exactly know what that means, but I thought I'd say goodbye. I can go, though, if you'd rather?"

Harry's voice makes Draco jump, and he nearly drops the jar. He spins around, eyes wide, and tries to think of something to say.

"Where are you going?"

"London. I'm leaving early tomorrow morning, and I didn't want to… Well, I wanted to see you before I left."

"I'm sure we'll see each other next year."

Harry scratches at the back of his head, flushing. "About that. I won't… I'm not coming back as the Defense teacher. Minerva asked, but… I don't know, it's not the right fit for me."

"Oh."

"Yeah. I thought you would've heard by now."

"No, I hadn't."

"Well. Now you have."

The small room fills with a silence as suffocating as smoke. Draco wishes he could Vanish it, find a way to cut through the overwhelming ache of it to say what he needs to say, before Harry leaves and Draco misses his only chance to take what he wants.

Of course, Harry is the first to find his way through it.

"What's that?" Harry asks, looking at Draco's hands.

"It's for you." Draco shoves it forward. There's an awkward moment where it looks like Harry might not take it, but he eventually takes a step forward and plucks the jar from Draco's hands. "It's for your leg."

"Thank you. I'm nearly out of the other stuff you gave me, actually."

"This is different. I… I made it. I mean, I made the other one, too, but I made this one in particular."

Harry frowns.

"Specifically. It's formulated for you. And your leg." Draco lets out a shaky breath. "I'm going to go poison myself and put us both out of my misery now."

Harry laughs. "You don't have to do that for me."

"It's motivated entirely from self-preservation, I assure you."

"Still." Harry looks at the jar in his hands. "I'd prefer you un-poisoned, if my opinion matters at all."

"I'll keep that input in mind, then." Draco gestures to the jar. "Go on, open it. It's a new formulation. I'd like to know if it works better than the standard."

Harry's eyebrow rises into his hairline. "You want me to take my trousers off?"

_Oh, yes._

"No. Your hands should suffice."

Harry nods, then unscrews the lid of the jar. He starts to dip his finger in, then hesitates. "I won't be able to hold the jar and rub it on my hand, too." He offers it to Draco. "Would you mind?"

Draco nods, then gathers the balm onto his fingers. It starts to soften, releasing the earthy scent that had frozen him the first time he smelled it. But with Harry in the room with him, his hand outstretched for Draco's, the scent of pine and mint has Draco feeling overly warm rather than cold. When he takes Harry's hand in his own and starts rubbing small circles into the wide palm, Draco thinks he might ignite.

"I wanted to talk to you," Harry says quietly. "Not just say goodbye before the term was over."

"What did you want to talk about?" Draco can't look anywhere but Harry's hand and where Draco's fingers press into it.

"Us."

Draco's fingers still, and he finally looks up. Harry doesn't look happy or upset, just still like the surface of a deep lake. "What about us?"

"I know you said you don't want… You don't want everything I'm willing to offer. And I know I said that it wouldn't be enough for me to have less than that. But I've been thinking, and honestly…" He closes his hand around Draco's fingers. "I've missed you, and I've missed our friendship. So if that's all you can give… It's what I'll take, until you're ready for more."

"Harry…"

"I don't want you to think I'm pushing you on this. It's probably not fair of me to ask, but I value what we have more than what we _might_ have sometime in the future."

"And what if I'm never ready? What if, years from now, I still can't?"

Harry's hand tenses around Draco's, then gentles infinitesimally. "Then we'll deal with it then. But I'd rather have you as a friend now than not at all because of something that we can't predict."

"That sounds very naive to me, Potter. How do you know you'll still want more, years down the line?"

"I know."

Draco swallows, then lets himself fall.

"Good. I do, too."

Harry's hand tightens around Draco's fingers to the point of pain, and Draco carefully places his other hand over top of Harry's, squeezing softly until Harry's grip eases.

"What did you say?" Harry's voice is a hoarse croak. "Don't fuck with me, Malfoy. I will still hex your bollocks off, feelings be damned."

"I've been thinking."

"You tend to do that."

"Shut up if you want to hear where I'm going with this." He squeezes Harry's hand again, trying to ease the tension suddenly radiating off of the man. "I've been thinking. Not just about what's happened between the two of us, though that's part of it, but also about myself and how I handle… these kinds of things. Feelings." He swallows. "Love.

"Honestly, talking about it isn't making me feel any better, though I think I owe it to you to explain. It… It terrifies me. I don't like being vulnerable or letting people have power over me. And when I love someone… well, it's a lot. But I've been thinking, and there are so many people in my life that I care about without fear. My mother, Pansy, Minerva, even Hagrid, though he's going to get a student killed at some point in time, I just know it.

"I have spent a good portion of my life feeling things for you, Harry, not all of them bright, pleasant things. I've envied you and hated you. I've wanted to hurt you or ignore you. I've wanted to be your friend." Draco takes a deep breath. "I've wanted you to want me. To want me back."

"Draco, I—"

"Please, let me finish. Before you say something that will make me stop talking. I don't know if I can bring myself to say this a second time. I have wanted you to want me back, and when you did… I don't know, it made it all so much worse. It made it real, and suddenly being faced with the reality of you, I couldn't… So I ran away because that's what I do, because I'm a coward at heart."

"You _aren't_."

"Honestly. Stop interrupting." Draco shakes his head, amused and fond and heart racing. "I'm tired of being afraid of the things I want. I'm tired of expecting the worst, even when all evidence points to the results being the opposite. You would think a potions master would know how to determine the efficacy of a thing, especially something as ephemeral as feeling. And what I feel for you… Well, it's safe to say it's much more than ephemeral."

"Draco," Harry says, interrupting again. "I'm going to kiss you now."

Draco blinks. "Oh. Well. If you insist."

Harry drags Draco forward by his hands, and as the jar of warming balm falls to the ground, Draco lets himself be kissed.

And it's everything he remembers from the first time he had Harry's mouth on his own. It's warmth and comfort and belonging. It's equals meeting on an even pitch. But there's an edge to this kiss that was missing the last time, a sense of desperation and completion that grows as Harry pulls Draco even closer. Draco follows willingly, losing himself to the sensation of Harry's hands questing for Draco's skin, and Draco shivering in anticipation of their discovery.

He tangles his hands in Harry's hair, pulls him closer as they bite at each other's mouths, panting and laughing at the same time. Harry cups Draco's jaw with his hand, and Draco is overwhelmed by the smell of pine and menthol smeared into his skin. He's drowning in Harry's mouth, his touch, his only source of oxygen the gasping breaths he takes between bruising kisses. Harry tilts Draco's head back, biting at the hinge of his jaw and trailing his lips down the column of Draco's throat.

"You've been driving me mad," Harry pants against Draco's skin, pressing opened mouth kisses along Draco's pulse point. "Haven't been able to think of anything but you."

"That is incredibly flattering."

Harry groans. "Can you not be a prat for one moment?"

"I don't think so."

Laughing, Harry grabs at Draco's arse, shocking a gasp from his mouth. "I shouldn't like it. This shouldn't be working for me." He lifts Draco and sets him on the empty workbench, then crowds into the space between Draco's spread knees. "Your fucking mouth."

Harry takes it again in a bruising kiss, and Draco leans into it, Harry's jaw cupped in Draco's hands. Hands free, Harry lets them roam across the planes of Draco's back, questing at the edge of Draco's trousers. When his shirt tails are pulled out and cotton is replaced with the warmth of Harry's palms spread across the expanse of his lower back, Draco moans. He can't decide if he wants to rut forward into the hardness of Harry's body or lean back into the heat of his touch. Caught between two choices he wants in equal measure, he writhes instead, shifting his body in a sinuous roll that has the hands on his back clenching.

Harry moans as he slides his hands lower, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of Draco's trousers to tease at the curve of his buttocks.

"Harry," Draco says breathlessly. "We're in my potions room."

"Hogwarts, Scotland. Why are you talking?" Harry guides Draco's aching body against his, and Draco gasps at the feel of his cock rubbing against the rippled heat of Harry's abdomen.

"What if someone walks in?"

"I will Obliviate them. Shut up." Harry slides his hands deeper into Draco's trousers and underneath his pants. His calluses rasp against the sensitive skin of Draco's bare arse, and for a moment, Draco loses track of the conversation, giving into heat and desire.

When he pulls up again for another gasping breath, he continues. "I don't want you to think I'm easy."

Harry drops his head to Draco's chest, panting. "I will never think you're easy, Malfoy. Now, are you going to let me fuck you, or no?"

"And if I wanted to fuck you?"

"As long as there's fucking, my God." He looks up at Draco, green eyes hazed with lust and laughter. "Draco, please."

"My quarters are just down the hall. I'd like to see you on my bed."

"You're going to be the death of me." Harry darts in for another kiss, though it's gentle and fond. "Move your arse, Malfoy."

"You're going to have to get out of the way first."

Harry drags Draco to the edge of the worktable, forcing Draco to grind his hips into Harry's stomach. Draco groans, thrusting a few times as he trails kisses along Harry's neck. "Put your legs around me, you idiot."

Laughing, Draco does as instructed, and Harry supports his weight, his wide hands wrapped around the Draco's thighs. "Merlin, you're heavy."

"Very romantic," Draco says, arms resting over Harry's shoulders. "This was your idea, not mine. If your leg…"

"Fuck my leg. I'm taking you to bed."

And Draco, laughing, lets Harry carry him out of the potions classroom, down the hall, and into his quarters.

The door slams shut behind Harry, who takes a few steps forward before tossing Draco onto the bed. Bouncing on the coverlet, Draco leans forward and watches as Harry locks the door behind him, then starts opening the fastenings of his robe.

Draco hadn't paid much attention to what Harry was wearing when he'd appeared in Draco's workroom, but he's paying attention now. The black robes—the color and cut severe and doing little to complement Harry's figure—fall to the floor, revealing a cream shirt and threadbare jeans. Draco's dick twitches in his trousers, and he sits up a bit more, enjoying the view.

Catching onto Draco's interest, Harry takes his time undoing the buttons on his shirt. The fabric parts beneath his fingers, revealing a vee of dark skin and curling hair. When the fabric gapes open, Harry walks towards the bed, kicking his trainers off as he moves forward.

"You are indecent. Come here so I don't have to look at you anymore."

Harry chuckles and slides his shirt off entirely. Draco's mouth goes a little dry, and his desire stills under his skin. "Harry. What happened?"

Looking down, confused, realisation blossoms across Harry's face as Draco reaches for his chest. There's a deep oval scar in the center of Harry's breastbone, along with a starburst only a few inches above his heart. Lines bisect the curve of his ribs, deep red and raised beneath Draco's fingertips.

"I'm an Auror," Harry says quietly, watching as Draco maps out his scars. "Or I was."

"Merlin." Draco slides his hand up Harry's side, resting it on Harry's back for a moment before pulling him down to the bed. Harry lands on his side, but rolls onto his back as Draco leans forward, pressing his lips to Harry's collarbone before dragging them lower, kissing his way across the marred skin of Harry's chest.

"You don't have to—"

"Shut up, Harry, I'm being sweet."

Draco feels Harry's laughter against his lips. "Okay, okay." His fingers bury into Draco's hair and linger there as Draco continues moving across Harry's body with his mouth. As he dips his tongue into the hollow of Harry's belly button, the fingers in his hair tighten. "Still being sweet?"

"Guess you'll find out," Draco says, reaching for Harry's jeans and undoing the top button. Harry groans, but helpfully lifts his hips as Draco drags the wear-softened denim down his legs.

"Ah, maybe don't look at that one," Harry says as his left thigh comes into view. His hand in Draco's hair moves away, trying to cover the ragged scar across the upper third of his leg and disappearing beneath the hem of his black briefs.

Draco scoffs, though he's shocked at how white and stiff the twisted skin looks. "It's all part of you. Why wouldn't I want to look at it?"

"It's ugly."

Draco sits up, stares at Harry with a scowl, then kisses the raised scar. "It's not ugly," he says as he maps its borders with his lips. "You're not ugly."

"I can't…" Harry lets out a shuddering breath. "Draco. God, get up here."

Hands grasping at whatever part of Draco's body they can reach, Harry drags him up, crashing his mouth against Draco's with a groan. He rolls them, pinning Draco beneath his body as their mouths move and slide against each other. Draco tries to gentle the kiss, whispering quiet nothings between nips, but Harry's tongue teases at the seam of Draco's mouth, and he figures he'll have time for that later.

They work their way from their clothes with fevered hands and harried touches, until they're pressed skin-to-skin all along their bodies, the scars scattered across their chests running parallel but touching. Draco ruts up against Harry's body, pressing his cock alongside Harry's until they're both gasping as the sensation.

"Please tell me you have lube," Harry says against Draco's kiss-bitten mouth.

"Somewhere." Draco reaches out his hand and wandlessly casts an _Accio_. A moment later, a bottle lands in his hand, and he holds it up triumphantly before opening the cap and pouring a liberal amount onto his hand. When he wraps his fingers around his and Harry's cocks, it's with a groan of such relief, it has Harry laughing and moaning above him.

"This is going to be over fast," he pants out, thrusting into the tight grip of Draco's hand. "I swear to you, I will make it last for hours the next time, but this is not going to be a good showing."

Draco tightens his hand and grins as Harry shudders against him. But then Harry starts thrusting with slow and wicked rolls of his hips that have Draco keening, frantically pulling Harry's head down with his free hand for another punishing kiss. He's on fire. He can't think, can't do anything but feel. Harry pulls away, tucks his head into the crook of Draco's neck, and breathes against the sweat-dampened skin there.

"Bloody hell. I love you."

"Oh fuck," Draco says, eloquent as always. His hips shudder against Harry's, and his grip tightens. "Harry. Fuck."

And then he's coming, his whole body arching with pleasure. Harry laughs, then curses, joining him a moment later. He falls forward, though he has the good grace not to completely squash Draco into the bed, instead landing half on him, half on the mattress, his mouth still pressed to the line of Draco's collarbone.

"That was uncalled for," Draco says to the ceiling.

Harry laughs against Draco's neck, then kisses it. "I do, though. Love you."

"And I… like you. Very much."

Sighing, Harry snuggles closer. "We'll get you there."

Draco expects they will.


	17. Chapter 17

Harry's leg aches. As he walks through his home, the muscle pulls awkwardly against the bone, and he grits his teeth against the pain. There's a green glass jar sitting next to his bed, and as he lets his weight settle into the softness of his mattress, he reaches for it, already looking forward to the relief it'll bring.

As he eases his trousers down his leg, he stares at the scar. It's still wicked and white, a spider web of tangled, poorly-healed skin that he'll carry with him for the rest of his life. But as he rubs the scent of pine and menthol into the mark, the muscle relaxes, softens, eases. The balm spreads through him, warm and welcoming.

"Is it bothering you today?" Draco asks from the doorway of their bedroom. He's leaning against the frame, his blond hair drooping across his forehead. It's windblown and scattered from their race through London. Harry had won, of course, and done his level best to ruin the perfectly combed coif before they came tumbling back to Grimmauld Place.

"It's fine."

"Let me," Draco says, approaching the bed and taking the jar from Harry’s hand. Harry doesn't need any more of the balm, the ache eased to almost nothing, but as Draco kneels between his legs, his long, confident fingers rubbing into the muscle, Harry lets him.

This is how Draco says _I love you_. These quiet moments—when he's doing things without any thought, caring for Harry because he cares—are filled with wordless declarations, ones that it's taken Harry months to learn the sound of. But he knows what they mean, now. He can hear them in the silence.

He brushes Draco's hair back from his face, gazes at the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the line of his jaw, unsoftened by time, still as brutally efficient at ruining Harry as they ever were. He loves this man, this tangled mess of a person, this imperfection that Harry finds perfect. Draco catches him staring, as he always does, and rolls his eyes.

"You are absolutely abysmal."

"Besotted."

"Sappy."

"In love."

That makes him smile. "For some unfathomable reason."

"It's certainly not for your charm."

Draco presses his thumb into Harry's thigh as if to hurt. Instead, it finds a knot of muscle which releases under the pressure. Harry lets out a quiet sigh of relief.

"Did that help?" Draco asks before adding a bit more balm. "I knew that flight was pushing it."

"Yes, it helped. Stop worrying."

"There are only so many times I'm going to find you trapped in the bathtub because your leg's too stiff to move. I don't know if you're aware, Harry, but you outweigh me by a stone, and I do not appreciate carting your body all over this house."

"I don't… Are you calling me fat?"

"No, of course not." He presses an appreciative hand to Harry's abdomen, still rippled with muscle, though it has softened with Dippy's continued home-cooked meals. "Just solid. You have mass."

"I have mass."

"Yes."

"Christ. It's definitely not for your charm." Draco presses a kiss to Harry's thigh, then bites at it playfully. It makes Harry groan. "Get up here, you tease."

Draco comes laughing into his arms, tumbling the both of them to the mattress. Harry's trousers are tangled around his legs, but he doesn't care. He has other things to worry about now.

Down the hall, in his study, there's a letter. It's tucked into his desk drawer and covered in green ink, its letters sharp and precise.

_Mr Potter,_

_I have heard of your recent retirement from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and believe you to have enjoyed your time at Hogwarts over the last year. As such, I think there may be an opportunity for you here as the next Hogwarts flying instructor and Quidditch referee. Rolanda will be retiring next year and is looking for someone to study under her in preparation for the event. If you have the requisite qualifications and training, and any interest in the position, I would suggest that you send an owl at your earliest convenience. The summer break is nearly over, and we will need to get you settled. There's not much room in the dungeons, after all, and expanding charms do take time._

_Please tell Draco hello. He's been ignoring my letters. Something about meddling._

_I look forward to your response._

_Sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done!
> 
> I could NOT have done this without the support and encouragement of my beta team, Lis and Bella. You've both saved my butt so many times with this story. It would not be what it is without you both. ❤❤❤
> 
> Thank you for everyone who's been reading and commenting as chapters have gone up. I hope you like the ending, and Harry and Draco's happily-ever-after. I adore you all. 🥰

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my ~~seriously overworked~~ amazing betas, Lis, Bella, and Nat. I'd be lost without you.
> 
> If there's anything in here that I didn't tag for that I should have, let me know so I can update them! Next chapter is coming out soon.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[cover] Can't Afford to Fall by p1013](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25343563) by [cover by (bluedreaming)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluedreaming/pseuds/cover%20by)




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